The War for Hell's Kitchen: Season Two
by brenli
Summary: [[Daredevil/The Punisher AU, sequel to The War for Hell's Kitchen: Season One]] The Kingpin might be behind bars, but that doesn't mean Hell's Kitchen is clean. Nothing near her stays safe... but maybe that's fine, because nothing near the new vigilante in town stays safe, either.
1. Tired

_Foreword:_ _The following is a Marvel's Daredevil/The Punisher AU piece. It is the sequel, the 'second season' to the prior 'season' of this AU, so it goes without saying that the 'first season' should be read, first. I do feel it should be noted, this project as a whole was created to be a sort of joint project between myself, Jael Randell (who the readership will likely know as the cowriter for Chronicles of the Fallen's second installment, Layers), and HaloRecoil. There will likely feel like there are… not necessarily huge missing parts, but like there are skips ahead to different parts of the overarching plot, as I will only be posting the pieces I myself have written. Familiarity with the storylines of Daredevil is, therefore, highly recommended. That said, there are going to be some deviations from said plot, and the overall world of this AU was constructed prior to the premiere of The Punisher, so it will likely not follow the exact story arcs that show will employ. It feels moreso like a situation where one must know the rules before breaking them._

 _Also, while this has its roots as an Angel Sanctuary gone Daredevil/The Punisher AU, this piece features Nemaelle Mudou, OC for my CotF series, Azreal, HaloRecoil's OC for her Coming of the Seraph series, and Zephyrel, OC for Jael Randell's Eve of the Earth series. It should be noted, however, that these characters (and all characters, really), have been 'normalized' in their features – no otherworldly colors, bringing everyone down to earth, so to speak. For example, Nema's trademark white-haired, red-eyed look has been toned down to a pale blonde, chocolate brown-eyed look._

* * *

 **The War for Hell's Kitchen  
** _Tired  
_ By: Brenli

This was embarrassing.

Somewhere inside the wreckage of his brain, Michael could rationalize that there wasn't necessarily anything to be embarrassed about. Those Irish mobsters did an indisputable number on him. Hit him in the damn face so many times it was a wonder he was even conscious, right now. Drilled through his damn _foot._ Shot him. He was allowed to stumble, he was allowed to find difficulty in simply breathing.

But the soldier in him – and honestly, was he anything but a soldier, really? - wouldn't accept it. Wouldn't take excuses for doing anything less than his best, and still striving to be better. He might not be in Iraq, or Afghanistan; he was still at war. He was always going to be at war.

And being practically tucked under the arm of the red-clad Devil of Hell's Kitchen made him feel too much like he'd lost.

"Come on," Daredevil said, and propped him up against something cold and smooth. His head was so beat, it took longer than it should have for him to realize he was leaning against a gravestone.

"This is fucking poetic." Speaking hurt. Everything hurt.

Daredevil ignored his comment. It wasn't his fault the cemetery was the closest quiet place he could get the man to. "Hey," he said instead, "Not bad back there."

Michael snorted, and it felt like there was blood building in his sinuses. "Please."

"No, you did good. Knocked a good few out."

"Would've killed 'em if you didn't keep _disarming_ me. What the fuck, Red? It's like you don't think weapons cost money!"

"Weapons weren't _necessary_. You can't see that? We could've gotten out with zero deaths if you hadn't gone berserk again."

Shit. Shit shit shit. His head bashed lightly against the headstone as he groaned. "I know I said I'd argue with you about this to the death; doesn't mean I actually _wanted_ it."

The more merciful of the two vigilantes was insistent. "You're not dying tonight. Help is on the way."

Michael's brows pinched together. He could feel his whole face protesting against it. "So I get to have another morality argument with you, and then die handcuffed to a gurney. Get out of here, Red. I'm tired." So tired...

"Then maybe you'll finally listen."

"Just 'cause I don't agree with you doesn't mean I'm not listening."

"My way works, Michael. It works if you have faith in it."

Michael made an attempt to shake his head. It felt more like his head was rolling side to side across his damn shoulders. "Fuck. Fuck, don't do this to me. Don't fucking do this to me, Altar Boy. You really wanna tell me your way works? What do you do, huh? You act like it's a playground. Beat up bullies with your fists. Put 'em in time out."

"In jail. It's justice."

"It's a slap on the wrist...!" Michael yelled, felt dizzy. Yelled more because of that dizziness. "A month, a week, a day later, they're out there doing the same terrible shit. You get to be called a hero for that! It's fucking twisted!"

"No, you know what's twisted?" The Devil of Hell's Kitchen said back, firm and stubborn. "What's twisted is that you'd rather send them six feet under. In the dirt you're sitting on."

He scoffed. "If I had my way they wouldn't even get that. What, prayers and... and fucking flowers on their stone tablets? They don't deserve it!"

"They were _people_ , Michael. They were human!"

"Were they? I don't think so. You got these... these things, selling crack to kids, gunning down men for their wallets, selling fucking... fucking little girls, raising them to get used to being raped, but these people are human to you, Red? Really?"

"That's an extremely broad brush you're painting with." He clearly wasn't impressed. Good thing Michael wasn't trying to impress him. "What about Voice?"

"Christ's sake... the guy who plugged the old lady? You mean taping a gun to your hand and beating the truth out of him didn't teach you anything?"

"Why didn't it teach _you_ anything? You couldn't tell how scared he was?"

"Good! He should've been scared! He should've been shitting himself!"

Daredevil's jaw clenched in frustration, and damn it all, Michael felt glad to aggravate him. "He was remorseful. He felt the guilt already, because he was a good person at heart. Just dragged into bad circles. And you snuffed out any chance for him to redeem himself."

"Listen to you. Redeem himself!" Michael coughed. "There's nothing to redeem!"

The red-clad man snapped over all of his rough grumbling. "How do you know that?"

" _I just do!_ " This was more than embarrassing. It was outright exhausting. "You wanna treat me like I'm a judgy fuck; well look at you. You condemn people, too. Left and right you do it. But you won't finish the job and it's the most enraging fucking thing I've ever...!"

"There's no job to finish, Michael!"

"Yes there is!" Yelling made it feel like his guts might try to pop out of him. "You do this shit, you go out at night and take the law into your hands; that's a job, Red. That's a job. And you keep skipping the fuck out an hour before your shift ends, leaving the dirt to me!"

"Hey!" The word was a loud rumble that felt like it might've shook the ground. Or maybe Michael was just that out of it. "If I _ever_ catch you picking off people I've already taken care of-"

"You'll what, Red?" Michael seethed. "Kill me?"

The Devil of Hell's Kitchen said nothing.

"I gave you the chance, even. You think I'm so terrible? Then you should've aimed and pulled the fucking trigger! But you didn't." His breath was more like a wheeze through his nose. "No, you roughed me up a little bit, and let me off the hook. That's the difference between you and me. You hit 'em and they get back up." He leaned forward. "I hit 'em and they _stay down!_ "

"Yes! Yes, you do!" Daredevil yelled at him, and his voice was clear and sharp and not the train wreck that Michael's rage-filled growling was. "And then they can never get a second chance. They can never start over, or try again, or make amends. They can't do their penance, Michael. You rob them of that."

"Watch out, Altar Boy. Your Catholic is showing."

"It's true. And everyone deserves that chance, Michael. Even you do."

"Holy shit." Michael sighed out in annoyance, and it felt almost like the final breath, the dying breath. "I'm tired, Red. I'm fucking tired. Can't you just get the fuck out of here and let me bleed out in peace?"

But of course, the man in red didn't leave. Of course he wouldn't. Why would Michael ever have that kind of luck on his side? At least he was quiet, allowing him to shut his eyes and pretend he was alone. A dying man surrounded by those already dead.

"One batch, two batch. Penny and dime."

The little melodic lines sounded so, so strange coming from the mouth of anyone else other than his own. "Here I come. Here I come." He opened his eyes and turned them skyward, but Michael could hardly see anything. His face, no doubt, must have looked puffy and blue and black and terrible...

"That the last part of it?" Daredevil settled down beside him.

That was better. Then Michael didn't have to look up at his half-covered face. "The next part of it."

"A song?"

"A book. Her favorite book." He cleared his throat. "You got kids, Red?"

The Devil's laugh was a bit surprised and flustered. "No, no, not me."

"That's a shock." Michael smiled, even though it made the flesh of his lips feel like they were cracking apart. "Figured under that ridiculous suit of yours, you must be a regular Leave it to Beaver type. Married your highschool sweetheart, made the poor woman pop out like, ten kids."

"Never really had a highschool sweetheart, to be honest."

"College sweetheart is just as good."

That seemed to give the Devil of Hell's Kitchen pause, and Michael let him have it.

"Kids are... holy shit. You wanna sit here talking to me about... hope and miracles and shit. Nothing more miraculous than a kid." That was when he felt his throat choke up. He was too beat down, too exhausted to care. "I don't know how the guys before our time did it. I mean yeah they had letters and pictures, but you have to wait for it. You have to wait for it to fly across the damn ocean and then it's gotta go by vehicle. Shit... you're not gonna hear from 'em for months at a time. I don't know... I don't know. These days we got our fucking... cell phones and Skype and shit." Another smile cracked painfully across his beaten face. "Jenny's face always filling up the entire screen; didn't have the heart to tell her to scoot back a little. She kept me together better than stitches and staples."

"Jenny, huh?" Daredevil said quietly.

"Jenebel. Yeah... Bal wanted an A name for a boy and a J name for a girl. I was leanin' more toward Nathan for a boy, wasn't sure for a girl honestly. Of course, gotta let the Missus have final say in these things. I mean, she's the one carrying for fucking 9 months. Figure she's earned the naming rights." The jokes were like serrated edges on his skin. "Two tours, fuck. Going to bed in war zones but I had my baby girl with me. I don't know. Does that make sense to you? What I'm saying..."

The Devil of Hell's Kitchen didn't want to act as though he understood fully. The last time they'd fought, the Punisher had made it clear that the war being fought here wasn't the same as the war being fought elsewhere. Even if it was still a kind of war. "Keep your head on your shoulders?"

"No... No, I don't know. Maybe." His head tilted, like he was only just now weighing the idea. "Two tours, and all that dust in my mouth and friends' blood in my face... It's just life. It's just the nature of things. You know? Couldn't be helped. I never broke out there, never got scared. Maybe it was Jenny, but I don't know. If it was Jenny then why wasn't..." He broke his train of thought, eyes searching the sky for nothing. "Everybody thinks the leaving is hard; I don't think it ever was. Coming home is hard."

"People cruel about it?"

Michael scoffed. "I got people on the news calling me crazy as shit for what I do; you think I care about what people think of me? No... No, that's not what I'm talking about. It's... being tired. The kinda tired... it sits in your marrow, you know? It's fucking pervasive; you can't make it leave. You ever been tired like that, Red?"

He nodded. "Yeah... Yeah, I have."

"Yeah..." Michael nodded, too. "I got really tired, fuck. Staring out the window, the plane hits the tarmac. Kinda jolts you, it was the first time I jumped in fucking ages. Get out of the plane, there's the wife. She's so... holy shit, Red. Gold hair and eyes like blue skies. A real American dream, you know? And I'm so... I'm fucking floored and I got her in my arms; I'm hugging her so tight. But I'm tired, you know? I'm happy but I'm so fucking tired." He shook his head. "Couldn't even drive; had her do it. I'm lookin' out the window, we're passing fuckin'... doughnut shops and burger joints and all that greasy shit. The shit I fought to protect. And we get to Jenny's school and they're havin' some... I don't know, some kinda arts and crafts time. Of course, Jenny's making finger paint One Batch, Two Batch..." He laughed and it sounded almost... waterlogged, like he was full to bursting with sadness, like the tiredness had leaked out of his bones. "Penny and dime..." Michael cleared his throat. "She's painting a big red container for the batches and she looks up and sees me, it's fucking... kids going nuts all around us, she springs over her desk like a damn jack rabbit and runs for me. I'm holding her so tight and she's getting all this red all over my uniform; I don't give a shit. Everybody's crying. Bal's all going to pieces, the kids are screaming, teacher's filming it. Pretty sure it's up on YouTube; I don't know if it's any good but it's what it is. Everybody's crying... not my Jenny." Michael made an attempt to laugh, but this time it devolved into a broken weep. "Not my baby girl... I'm a fucking mess and she practically turned herself into a peacock, she's telling everyone, she's telling me, 'I knew it, I knew it.' She's so strong, that way. Stronger than I've ever been." He sighed in aggravation over how he just... couldn't quit crying, now. "We get home and Bal's got this big dinner made and I'm... I'm happy. I'm home and I'm happy but I'm so... so tired. I can hardly eat, can't even drink a damn beer. Couldn't take my wife to bed. Couldn't... Damn..." He took in a breath and it made his entire torso ache and sting. "She had that book out. One Batch, Two Batch... because that was how it always was. Every night. Reading it to her... But I was so tired, Red..."

Daredevil made out the faint sounds of police sirens, but knew that it wasn't strong enough to reach Michael's ears. If it even mattered at all.

"Poor girl... she's as stubborn as her father. She begged. And begged. And begged... but I said 'no.' I was tired, you see? I was too tired. But I'll..." He paused around the sound of his voice cracking apart. "'I'll read it to you tomorrow night.'" He was too tired to hold anything in anymore... Speaking around tears and the blood leaking from his nose. "But there's no tomorrow, Red... Like... Like war fuckin' followed me home. Bullets spraying all across the carousel... I'm holding her so tight... she's getting all this red all over my clothes... I'm a fucking mess, and she... Meat spilling out of her, Red... where her face used to be." At last the sirens reached his own ears, and he could to little more than turn his head toward the flashing lights, red and blue, red and blue. "I'm tired, Red... I'm tired."

The Devil of Hell's Kitchen stood, hands behind his head, ready to be detained. "Rest now, Michael." Though he hoped, with the right convincing, the police would release him and take the credit. Credit he didn't want... There was no pride to be had in bringing in a broken lion of a man, whose roars sounded like anger but were more like pain.


	2. Brave Damn Woman

**The War for Hell's Kitchen  
** _Brave Damn Woman  
_ By: Brenli

He'd been awake for longer than he cared to let on, lying in the hospital bed with thick black straps holding him down, with each hand cuffed to the sides. Thoughts chased themselves in dizzy circles around his battered head... surprise that he was alive. Confusion that anyone bothered to _keep_ him alive. Certainty that this was the end of things. The end of his war. He would never get the justice or the answers that he sought...

Noises bled through the shut door, three pairs of shoes, one the tack of heels, and the tapping of a cane. Michael tilted his head forward and opened his bruised eyes in time to see who entered.

So he was right. Two men and a woman. The first seemed far too wholesome to be anywhere near the likes of him, sandy-colored hair, a cautious disposition. The second was blind, cool and composed; or maybe that was just the dark lenses of his glasses hiding whatever his eyes would have given away. His cane was tucked under his arm as the woman guided h-

It hurt, despite the painkillers, for his brows to pinch together, for his head to lift off of the pillow.

He remembered her.

Hair like pale gold. The subpar, harsh and struggling hospital lights had washed it over in a sickly green, at the time. Same with her skin. Dark eyes.

He'd shot at her, with all the calm cruelty of a hunter. He remembered, because she was the only reason that Voice had gotten away, that night. He was a sharp shooter – a Hell of a sharp shooter – but she was an innocent who kept getting in the way of his intended target.

And so he'd lost his mark, but no other choice would have done, at the time.

Michael would never gun down someone who didn't deserve it.

He watched the woman mouth a shocked, "Oh my God..." and release the blind man's hand. Couldn't say that he blamed her. If he looked even half like how he felt, then he must've looked like roadkill.

The blind man kept stepping forward, but Michael looked past him, uninterested in anything but the woman who he'd shot at, who was suddenly before him, again. What kind of coincidence was this...? And why was she looking at him that way? At once both reserved... and sharp. Or was that just the contrast of those eyes against the rest of her? He couldn't decide. But those eyes certainly commanded his attention, whatever they meant to convey. Scared or fierce?

"Uri, the tape."

The sandy-haired man's comment wasn't for him, so Michael ignored it. Kept on staring at the woman as she hugged a couple of folders and a notebook against her chest. In the hospital, under that not-so-great lighting, her eyes had looked dark and frightened as a doe's. He remembered their eyes meeting when she looked over her shoulder at him for a sliver of a moment. In this lighting they looked more like pieces of a melted Hershey bar. Scared or fierce? His gut told him, both. Surely she remembered him, after all. He'd... likely made a lasting impression. Maybe she meant to attack him for almost killing her.

"Michael Castle."

With a reluctance Michael couldn't place – like looking away from a hostile threat, but like looking away from an animal he hadn't meant to startle – his aching, blue-green eyes shifted over to the tan-skinned, long-haired man blindly standing just at the edge of the tape framing his hospital bed.

"My name is Uriel Murdock." Uriel fixed his cane back together as he continued to speak. "These are my associates, Setsuna Nelson and Nemaelle Page."

"Yeah." Michael wanted to move past any pleasantries, wanted the quiet. Wanted to figure out what the chances were that a woman he'd shot at would see him again. Would be staring at him like she had something to say. "I know who you are. You protect shitbags." Nothing like abrasiveness to cut through all the bullshit.

The corners of Uriel's mouth briefly flinched upward as he softly scoffed. "We're here to make you an offer. We don't want money for our services; we're not interested in fame or free advertising. We weren't even assigned to your case. We don't have to be here."

As Uriel spoke, Michael's head tilted slightly. Getting the woman more comfortably into his peripheral vision. She definitely had a stare on her, brown eyes set so sharply against the paleness of everything else about her. If looks could cut he would've been beheaded by now. And yet she didn't seem... angry. Or at least, not as angry was he would've expected her to be. They didn't have to be here, so why the Hell was she?

"But you take a quick look around, you'll notice we're the only ones who are. As you may well know, your list of enemies extends well beyond the gangs you've killed..."

On and on and on and on. Michael felt like he could go on autopilot, half-listen while staring at the woman as she stared back at him. Maybe it was just fear. Logic should dictate it was just fear...

Most women didn't stare fear square in the eye, though.

"... And the day you were admitted to Metro-General for the round you took to the head, a do-not-resuscitate order was placed on you."

If they were planning to recite his biography to him, Michael intended on going right back to sleep.

"And a shoot-to-kill order, just a few days ago." Setsuna spoke, both hands gripping the handle of his briefcase.

No shit?

"We know because we heard it given." She finally spoke.

"These orders were issued by the District Attorney..." Uriel continued.

But Michael took a moment, while on autopilot, to compare the woman's – Nemaelle's, Miss Page's – voice now to the sharp, panicked tones he remembered tearing out of her throat as she tugged Voice along with her, unaware that each bullet had been calmly, perfectly aimed to avoid her. It had been at the cost of him losing that thug, that night, but it didn't matter, now. Her voice was softer, currently. Restrained. Which was a perfect word for the look in her eyes. She was holding something back, or a lot of things...

"Someone in the DA's office wants you dead, Mr. Castle, and we'd like to know why."

Nema stepped forward just one pace, and so he looked at her openly. She stopped.

Still Uriel spoke. "You let us take your case; we can soften your sentence, and give you a shot. Maybe even find out who's responsible for what happened to you." When Michael still laid there in silence, he pushed a little harder. "We're talking about your life, Mr. Castle. We can help you keep what's left of it."

A laugh that came out more like a weak, dying chuckle burst past his lips as he looked up at the ceiling. "Like Voice?" He was over this. There wasn't anything they could do to help him. To give him what he really wanted. Did they think he was scared of life sentences, the death penalty? Please. He'd been on death row ever since that carousel was shot to shit...

She moved, and it was so sudden compared to her prior stillness that Michael's body tensed, his bruised eyes widened.

"Nema. Nema, Nema!" Uriel reached toward the sound of her as she burst past him. "Setsuna!" He called for help, but she was already past the red line of tape marking out the floor around his bed.

"You want answers?"

Michael thought she might strike him, and if that made her feel better for what she thought he tried to do to her, he'd let her do it. He'd been cracked in the damn face so many times, anyway. What was one more?

But she struck him in a different way. Pulling a photo from one of her folders... Jenny. And Bal. And himself. At that damn carousel. He looked so happy that he couldn't fucking recognize that man at all... What the... _How_ the...?

"So do we! But none of us will get them if you're _dead!_ "

"Where did you get that?" The bruises framed the wide, wild look suddenly in his eyes. "Where the fuck did you get that?"

"From your home." Scared or fierce? From so much closer, she just looked fierce. Unapologetic about what she'd done to get that photo.

"You were in my home?" How? Why? Shit, he hadn't gone back there since...

Some newcomer was ranting at the door, something about who was in this room with him. It could've been people with torches and pitchforks, ready to tear him apart. It didn't matter. The woman with the piercing eyes set in all that gentle lightness had been inside the one place he couldn't bear to set foot in. Why?

"You come into my house-" He meant to threaten, pouring every meager bit of energy into a low and menacing growl.

"Someone is lying about what happened to your family, Mr. Castle...!" Uriel was already pulling Nema back beyond the red tape, even as the back of her pale hand rested against his chest in refusal. Michael's aggression only fueled her. Yeah... not scared, not at all. Fierce, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out why.

DA Lailah Reyes stepped in, her heels stabbing at the hard floor, the anger making the scar on her face seem more pronounced as she pointed at each of his three visitors. "You three. Out. Now!" She was stern enough to make Setsuna jump and to pull Uriel's attention away from him, but Nemaelle... the brown-eyed girl kept staring. Piercing. At once fighting against his aggression and beseeching him to listen.

Brave damn woman.

" _Now!"_

And she kept staring, up until the last moment. When she turned, her pale gold hair swung against her shoulders just like it had when she ran from him like a frightened doe. But even that had been an act of bravery, hadn't it?

The detective sergeant whose name he kept forgetting – Hedwig, Niddhegg, something that sounded Scandinavian or some shit – went to close the door, leaving him alone with... suddenly, too many new thoughts and questions. "Wait." His voice was a rough bark, a grunt at best.

Niddhegg paused in the doorway, as the DA's yelling polluted the background. "What is it, Mr. Castle?"

"Them." Michael said, after briefly steeling himself to the decision. But nothing else would do, not after Nemaelle Page had burst past the line everyone else was afraid to cross. Literal. Figurative. "I want them representing me."

The detective sergeant paused only shortly before nodding.

"Tell the bitch with her panties in a twist that I want a consultation with them. Now."

He blinked at the language, as colorful as the bruising all across Michael's face, but nodded again. "I'll tell her now."


	3. The People v Michael Castle

**The War for Hell's Kitchen  
** _The People v. Michael Castle  
_ By: Brenli

"It's worse than I thought." Setsuna sighed heavily as he sifted through paper after paper. "37 separate murder charges. What about you?"

Nema knew that what she had to offer wasn't going to make things any better. 98 lesser charges. Felony assault, burglary, criminal possession of a weapon, reckless endangerment... "Not much better..."

"We're so screwed." He said it like he meant to send it straight to God, a plea for help. "We really needed Uriel here, for this."

And Nema agreed, wholeheartedly. She'd been just as dismayed to learn that Uriel had to be chauffeured away – _literally_ , complete with car service. She'd even go as far as to say that this wasn't like him, really. To forget appointments, to ditch on a case this complex for the sake of money... even if it was money sorely needed. Nema was getting pretty tired of looking up all kinds of recipes for the boxes of bananas they'd last received as payment, bananas that were looking less yellow and much more brown.

Yet she stood up for him. "It was an honest mistake, right?"

"Are you really defending him, right now?" Setsuna's friendship with Uriel went far back, but there was no masking how strained things had been between them, lately. "He left us in over our heads with this guy...!"

"He's thinking about the firm."

"If he's thinking about the firm then he should be helping us figure this out before we botch it. Horribly." Setsuna grumbled and set down the papers he kept pointlessly pouring over. "What's this other paying client about?"

Nema crossed her arms over her chest. "How should I know?"

"I don't know, you're the one in a..." He quoted with his fingers, "'not labeling it' thing with him."

Her pale shoulders slumped as she gave him a sharp, chocolate-eyed glare.

"Sorry." Setsuna sighed. "I'm just at the end of my rope with him. He's a great guy, just. This is supposed to be Nelson and Murdock, not Nelson and. Just Nelson."

"Hey..." She spoke softly. "I don't think he'd leave this to you if he didn't think you could handle it."

"Are you sure about that?" Setsuna grumbled.

"Give Uriel a little more credit than that. Give _yourself_ a little more credit than that. You can really talk a person into a corner when you need to, I mean... it wasn't all Uriel that put Reyes in her damn place just now."

Despite his stress, Setsuna managed a small chuckle. "Yeah, well. Putting someone in a cage is one thing. Dealing with someone already in a cage is another." As quick as the bit of comfort came, it promptly went, leaving behind a frown. "Speaking of – you broke into his _house?_ "

Oh boy. Nema shrank into herself, shoulders hunching, platinum blond strands slipping forward and pooling against her crossed arms.

"... Can I ask _why?_ "

"I'm trying to understand him, which honestly? Now that we're officially representing him, sounds like a good idea."

"By breaking into hishouse?" Setsuna ran his hands down his tired face. "What are you doing, Nema? He's already shot at you!"

"For reasons I don't fully understand...!" She sighed, eyes rolling when Setsuna held up a crooked pile of papers.

"37 murders. What's there to understand?"

Nema grabbed the papers and set them back down. "Are you ready to go in there?"

"No." Setsuna's answer was immediate. "But seeing as the arraignment's in a couple of hours, we don't have much choice."

They shared a sigh and began straightening out all the paperwork. "Setsuna?"

His eyes flicked up to her in acknowledgment before tapping his papers into a neat stack.

"It's fine... the thing with me and Uriel. Right?"

He chuckled and shook his head. "As long as he makes you happy. You bring out the good in everybody, so you deserve nothing less." He snapped his briefcase shut. "Time to go play 20 questions with a killer."

Nema's pale nose scrunched as she nudged him forward, and they made their way back to Michael's hospital room with all the feigned confidence they could muster. True enough, he was strapped down, cuffed to the bed, unarmed, and likely too injured to do much damage... yet whether he was aware of it or not, his presence filled the room like how a caged lion's might. Dangerous, even though restrained, and impossible to look away from.

The staring hadn't helped. The initial meeting in that room had consisted almost entirely of his staring, blue-green eyes rimmed in heavy, swollen purple lids, looking that much more dark when contrasted with his hair, crew cut and ginger-red.

He'd been attempting to read her. He was still attempting to read her, now, as they stepped up to that red line of tape, but no further. He was at once both threatening and threatened...

"I've reviewed the charges you're facing." Setsuna began. "It's my understanding that you wish to plead guilty to all of them?"

Nema sat down in the uncomfortable metal chair, and his eyes shifted, following her own. Like he needed to continue watching her... And she would say that it had to do with her admitting she broke into his home, if it weren't for the fact that he'd been doing it from the start.

Hell... in some ways it felt like he was still calmly and cruelly following her through the hospital hallways. Gaze never leaving her. Gun cocking. Bullets whizzing by. She was sure one had gone through her hair... too close for comfort. So maybe he was shooting her in his imagination...

"Um..." Setsuna stammered, floundering. "I'm gonna need a... verbal confirmation if we're gonna continue."

Michael said nothing. He just... stared at her, like he had something to say. Of course, he must have, after her confession. After the way she thrust a family photo at him. But she needed him to understand... They were on his side. She was on his side, even if little anticipatory thrills of fear shot through her.

"Look, you asked us to represent you. In order to do my job-"

"I'm guilty."

It was the truth but it was also a lie, said only to brush Setsuna off, and Nema could feel it down to the center of her bones. Her lips parted, though her eyes never left his. She may need to say something. Get him to understand that having a fully-invested conversation with Setsuna was infinitely more important than... whatever it was they were doing. Attempting to speak to each other with their eyes, but not understanding each other.

Setsuna was more than willing to work with Michael's assertion, whether it was genuine or not. "Great! Uh-"

"I'm not talking to you."

Nema heard the slight, anxious shifting of Setsuna's feet. "What?"

Michael's chest lifted in a deeper inhale, like he was on the edge of a confession. "Her."

She only realized that her lips had been gently parted when they suddenly thinned against each other, eyes trained to his like the lion's cage had been left open.

"I need to talk to her alone."

He might not have been armed, but it certainly felt like he was. Gun cocked, aimed. Ready to fire at her.

"Absolutely not." Setsuna immediately refused on her behalf. "My colleague is-"

"I'll do it." She hadn't come this far, dodged his bullets, slipped throughout his house, to be shut down by the prospect of speaking to him one on one. "I'll do it..."

She could feel the incredulous heat of Setsuna's stare, but she never broke her gaze on Michael's battered face. If he meant for this to be a challenge then she'd meet it. If he meant it to be something else, she'd work through it. But she wasn't backing away, now...

She heard Setsuna leave. Heard the door latch into place with a soft click. That was when Nema felt like the cage wasn't the bed, wasn't the ridiculous rectangle of red tape, it was the entire room. She'd locked herself in with a lion.

Nema stood, and his gaze followed her upwards. She cleared her throat and clutched at her folders. "... If you're feeling up to it, I-"

"My family."

Yes, they both knew that was at the forefront of his mind, of her mind. Not the legal proceedings. But justice waited for no one, and she would have thought a man so keen on taking out gang members would understand that. "... We'll get to that-"

"What. Do you know." Michael insisted, though his voice was quieter than she would have figured it would be. Not timid, still a rough and moody rumble in his throat. But without the taste of aggression he'd tried to direct at her earlier. It felt like respect. "About my family?"

A slow, soft sigh left her suddenly dry lips. Her tongue flicked briefly across them before she began rifling through papers in the top folder, "Have you ever seen this?" She approached the foot of his bed, held up the clipped together stack for him to see. "Police report. Complaint number 211974." She began to read it, and though she broke eye contact to do so, she could feel the heat of his stare on her face. She hoped it hadn't made her pale face bright red; her cheeks always seemed to go rosy, as it was... "Victims were stopped at a traffic light northbound on Buellton Avenue, when an unidentified male suspect began firing a 9mm handgun at their vehicle. Juvenile female and adult woman were found dead at the scene. Adult male driver was critically wounded and taken to Metro-General."

"Bullshit."

Nema's brown eyes shifted up and immediately caught his gaze again. Blue-green and in pain and angry because of that pain... and she couldn't fault him for that. "That's the story Reyes is running with."

Something flashed in the weight of his stare, darkened it, and Nema recognized it as the taint of hopelessness. She stepped forward, past that line of tape.

"But you and I know you and your family, you... you were-"

"-at the carousel." They finished in unison, eye contact never breaking, though his voice certainly did.

"From what I can piece together, it seems like you were caught in some kind of firefight?" She continued gently and even more gently still. The bruises all across his face made him look vulnerable despite his violence. Made him look like he might weep.

He said nothing. Just... stared, until the thinnest glimmer of wetness built up along his lower lids. Too complex to read, and yet Nema felt like she understood. The pain of remembering...

"... How much can you remember?" She asked, but anticipated receiving no answer. She got the feeling he was in no way used to this... not used to someone reaching out. Not used to someone trying to understand.

Not used to someone offering to defend him, and too used to being alone.

"This ain't about what I remember." For the first time his eyes shifted away, off to the side, blinking the shine of tears away before they could tumble.

"Yes it is...!" She hadn't meant for that to come out as sharp as it did, but she could feel him pulling away. She wouldn't have it. She wouldn't let him reject her, reject this. Her heels tapped against the floor as she drew ever closer, saw him trying hard not to look at her. She didn't stop until she was standing by his cuffed arm, eyes beseeching him even if he was suddenly trying to fight the eye contact. "Mr. Castle."

His gaze shifted uncomfortably, trying to find anything else to look at.

She wouldn't have it. "Michael." At last, she caught his gaze, and she did all she could to hold it. Hard, chocolate-eyed stare. Quiet, firm words. Even though his sadness made her want to cry, for him. "I have a lot of puzzle pieces, here. But..." She sighed, brushed locks of pale hair back behind her pale shoulder. "This would go much smoother if you would just work with me. Tell me... anything."

His blue-green gaze began shifting around again, his split lip quivering as a very soft murmur left his mouth. A searching murmur... "It goes... it goes in and out. Fading." When his eyes met hers, they were openly vulnerable and openly trying. "You know?"

"Yeah..." Nema nodded, soft murmur matching his. "Okay. That's okay..." As long as he was trying, it was okay...

"We had, uh..." Michael kept glancing about like the pieces were scattered around him. "Our spot. Laid out this blanket. She was by the carousel, she was on the lawn..." He paused.

Nema let him have that moment, knew this wasn't like his prior silences.

"And then I heard it. She screamed... It was a grown man." His chest rose and fell in calculated breaths.

"Did you know who?"

He shook his head, gazed off somewhere else. Strange, how that felt more uncomfortable than having him stare her square in the eye. "No... But I found out, later." A rough, angry rumble put his voice in gravel. "The Cartel."

Nema nodded and had to blink away the pictures she'd seen... all those bodies... swinging on meat hooks next to freshly slaughtered swine.

"Irish."

Different pictures, not quite as... articulate, but all the more gruesome for it. Nema took a breath to wash them from her mind.

"Bikers."

It explained the pattern, perfectly, and proved that if nothing else, he at least wasn't indiscriminate. "Anyone else?"

Another pause, and she knew... from the furrow in his ginger brow, to the hurting shine in his eyes, that if there were any others, he wasn't ready to remember. "I should've seen it coming."

She fought the urge to make him look straight at her, to take hold of his hand and grab his attention. But she needed to be sure he heard her... "How could you know?"

"What'd I just say to you?" Finally he looked at her, and the pain was searing, sudden and sharp like a bullet to the chest. "I said that I heard it."

Her arms crossed tighter across her chest, like the folders in her arms would be her bulletproof vest, but it was too late. Even so, she stared him in the eye, looked at the clarity of terrible memories. The clarity of his assumed guilt. Anything less would be a disgrace.

"I heard it, and I didn't do anything." As quickly as the aggression rose, it drowned under the rising tide of self-disgust. "My job was to keep them safe; I didn't." The hurt was so deep, so much a part of him that even though the sting of tears returned, his face didn't fight it. His brows didn't furrow. His jaw didn't clench. In the cemetery, bleeding out against the tombstone with the damn Devil of Hell's Kitchen raining morality on him, breaking apart had felt like roaring... Not here. Not in front of this woman all in shades of gentle lightness, and eyes that cut like a knife. "I didn't do it..."

Those chocolate eyes were shielded by her lashes as she suddenly broke their shared stare. The nostrils of her delicate nose flared, and Michael recognized it as the attempt to keep from sniffling. "I... I think..." She turned away, strode back across the red tape. Her hair swung across her shoulders like it did when she was running from him and his gunfire... "The questions can wait; I'll just... I..."

Michael didn't have to watch her running away; he'd already seen it once before, and that was all that played over in his head.

"Let me give you a moment... I can just-"

"Stay."

He heard the harder tap of heels pausing in their escape. He should have let her run off...

"Please."

His voice cracked around the word. Unsure. Even a little guilty about it. He'd _shot_ at the brown-eyed girl... Well. Not literally; he'd never aimed with the intent to hit her, but it was enough to make her go all frightened-doe-eyes at him...

Michael chanced a glance at her, knowing from the silence that she hadn't continued her journey out of the room. She was distracting herself with the papers she'd no doubt already gone over several times... avoiding him, and yet staying. He saw one pale hand swipe across her face. But why would his pain matter so much...? "You were never in any danger."

She gave a shaky inhale as she looked up from her folder. Frightened, chocolate doe eyes...

Something pulled at him. She was never in danger. Never at any point, not now, not when he had shot in her direction. "The other night. Babysitting that sack of shit, running 'round the halls with Voice. I just..."

Her mouth opened, which prompted him to pause, but then she just... looked back down at her fucking folder.

"I only hurt people that deserve it." He spoke louder, like he had to go through the wall her lashes made, so that the windows of her soul might actually believe him. He needed her to believe him... This woman who reached out to him for no good reason. "I just wanted you to know that." He grumbled the last words more to himself than to her, letting the feeling of defeat sink in. It was more than he ever dreamed to have someone want to fight for him in his corner, _genuinely_ fight for him. How stupid, to act like that someone would have the room to also forgive him for blasting bullets so close to her.

"You think Voice deserved it?" Nema thumbed at her folder.

"I do." He had no reservations about that belief. "He did hits for the Irish. You know that? He tell you that?" Their eyes met, he stared hard like that could hold her gaze. It worked. "He capped an old lady because she saw his face. Guessing he left that out while you were chatting, huh?"

Her lips parted and then closed.

"Yeah..." Of course the guy had left it out. Anything to keep the brown-eyed girl's sympathy. If he was honest, he couldn't blame the bastard for that much. He didn't need to spend hours upon hours with her to know Miss Nemaelle Page had a lot of heart. Who wouldn't want her on their side? He cleared his throat. "The point is, you were safe." His bruised eyes glanced down at the thick black strap pinning his chest down. "Okay? I just... wanted you to know that."

She bit her lip. Turned away, setting her folders down on the nearby counter. Her pale gold hair swinging across her shoulders. "Guess I'm just supposed to take your word for it?"

Ouch. Who knew that having a lot of heart didn't mean a lack of cruelty? "Classy." He muttered under his breath. "Nothing to do with my word, Miss."

"No?" She looked at him from over her shoulder.

His face was battered... and honest. "No."

She went back to looking over her paperwork.

Michael's hands curled into frustrated fists. "Look, you got any idea what a scout sniper is? You ever heard of that?"

"No."

"No?"

"No." Their words layered over each other into a strange... mutually-tired vocal stew.

But at least she was looking him in the eye, again. "Okay, well, you're looking at one. My class at Quantico; we had a saying, a motto. 'One shot, one kill.' Point is, if I _wanted_ you dead, you'd be dead!" He realized, in hindsight, that wasn't the friendliest thing he could have said. Well. Not that he was trying to be friendly.

"Why am I here?" Nema sighed, gesturing helplessly, brown eyes sharp and aggravated. "Hmm? Why did you ask me to stay?"

… He didn't know. He didn't know. Her features softened, and he wondered if that was because his bruised face gave himself away. "I-I don't..." He looked down at the black strap across his chest, again. Glanced up at her. Back down. Up again.

She waited. That piercing chocolate-eyed gaze.

"You... you have that picture. You were in my house. You have..." He cleared his throat. "You got all my memories. I'm just... I don't want them to go away." It was a lot to put on a person. He was sure she didn't deserve to carry the weight of that...

Her pale fingers threaded together in nervousness. "Mr. Castle-"

"Look. Just... You were in my house."

"... You never went back."

He shook his head. "Can I just ask...?"

She didn't answer until he looked up at her, and even then, it was only a nod. But she crossed over to him, again. Crossing that red line of tape.

"Were you in the kitchen?"

She nodded again.

"The plates..."

Nema understood. "On the table. Set up, like... like ready for dinner."

Michael nodded, and nodded. That sounded about right... "Yeah... Yeah, Bal would do that, whenever I planned to cook. Think it was so I, uh... couldn't pretend to forget."

She smiled, and it was soft and sad, but she said nothing. Let him recall the memory for himself.

"In the next room. Did you see the piano...?"

"Yeah." She nodded. Stepped closer. "Yeah..."

"Jenny, she... she used to hide cookies. Under the bench. She was a..." A corner of his mouth lifted. "Little entrepreneur; every time I passed she'd sell one to me."

The smile was crooked in his beat-up face, and it spurred a smile of her own. "Is that what the little jar on the side was for?"

"Yeah, yeah..." He nodded, chuckled lightly. "Eleven cents a pop."

"Penny and dime...?" Nema recalled the book in Jenebel's room, remembered briefly flipping through it.

"Penny and dime..." He repeated with a laugh. "Shit, my wallet was always so fat, 'cause I was carrying around all these pennies and dimes so I could buy my baby girl's cookies." So, so rare, laughter... and even more rare to have someone laugh along with him.

But laughter really suited this brown-eyed girl. Made her eyes light up and look like dollops of melted chocolate in her rosy-cheeked face, framed in all that pale, sunlight hair. "Yeah, yeah... When I was a little girl I used to do the same thing, kind of... except it was rocks."

"Rocks." His nose had a little gash across it, and it scrunched up at the idea.

"Rocks." Nema grinned at the memory. "I said they were jewels and I made anyone who entered my room buy one, because it was like..." Her pale fingers wiggled. "The Jewel Queendom and everyone had to have a jewel to be a part of my Queendom. But I uh... I think I charged in candy."

"Sneaky." Michael teased.

"Well candy was currency in the Jewel Queendom, see."

"Oh, I see. My bad."

"I had a vivid imagination, clearly." That imagination had given her a safe space, and a way to help her believe she could control who came and went.

He smiled, crooked and soft as he listened, and despite the bruises around his eyes, he looked so... kind, in the moment. Warm. "That's good, though. Imaginations are good. Helps you... get away. Guess we need that, right? We need to get away, sometimes."

Nema gently sighed, and kept her thoughts to herself. "Look, Michael, it's..." She cleared her throat. "It's really not for me to say... but your family clearly loved you. Very much."

His smile wavered, though he nodded. Blinked back the tears. "Yeah... yeah."

Her own smile wavered, too, and she turned toward her folders again. Pale gold hair... swinging across her shoulders... "Here." She sniffled and brushed her hand across her cheek again, before returning to him and placing that photo in his cuffed hand. Jenny. Bal. And himself, with a smile that stretched wide and happy and proud across his face...

Michael saw the tears, one for each eye, drip down the rosiness of her cheeks. Her eyes looked all the more like chocolate melting in the pale sunlight. "Thank you, Miss."

"For what?" She asked on a laugh that was too bitter for a face like hers, like she felt like she should've been able to do more.

"You... you helped me remember."

She blinked, which caused the remaining wetness in her eyes to catch in her lashes. "You're welcome." It was little more than a whisper.

The sound of the door pushing open caused the both of them to jump, Michael swinging wild bruise-rimmed eyes at Setsuna as Nema quickly sniffed and swiped at her tear-stained face.

Setsuna's reaction was immediate. "What did you do to her?"

"I didn't do nothin'." Michael suddenly descended into being rough and grumbly and mean-faced.

"Setsuna, it's fine, it's..." Nema reassured her colleague with a wave of her hand. She motioned to the papers in his hand with a jerk of her pale chin. "What's that?"

Setsuna didn't seem convinced, but with two pairs of eyes glaring at him to continue, he carried on. "... It looks like it's your lucky day, Mr. Castle. Those six Dogs of Hell members you wiped out in Delaware? Not an issue, anymore. They don't have the evidence to charge and extradite, so the death penalty is officially off the table." He smiled, albeit a bit nervously. "But Reyes also wanted three life sentences without the possibility of parole. I got her down to one...!" He reassured Michael, "With the possibility of parole in 25 years." He paused.

"... Where's the catch?" She asked quietly.

"She wouldn't budge on protective custody. He's gonna have to be in general pop."

Michael's face didn't betray any emotion other than the usual coarseness until Nema started snapping. Her voice was every bit as sharp as her glaring brown eyes. "No. No, that's bullshit; he'll be slaughtered...! Surrounded by criminals. It's a death sentence in itself!"

"Sounds like a party." Michael said dryly, and when Nema turned that glare to him... he didn't know. He crumbled a little, strangely. Why did it matter so much to this sunshine girl with the melted chocolate eyes, anyway? He couldn't understand it. Why did this make her so angry, why did she want to fight for him so much...?

"No doubt you could handle yourself, but I think Reyes is betting on the gangs, here." Setsuna said with a sigh. "Legally, though? I think this is the best possible deal we're gonna make, right now, so I recommend you take it."

Michael nodded, despite feeling the heat of Nema's glare. "Okay."

"Okay." Setsuna nodded in kind. "So when the judge and Reyes come in, all you have to do is say, 'Guilty, Your Honor.'"

Michael's blue-green gaze dropped to the black strap across his chest. Glanced up at Nema... she had her arms crossed tight across her chest, her brown eyes heavy-lidded and her little pink lips puckered into a sour pout. Fuck, she was doing nothing to hide her displeasure with this... but what was she expecting? For him to walk free? To have a fresh chance at life?

"And you'll never have to see us again."

He looked back down at himself. "... Can do."

"Are you ready for me to send them in?"

"Yeah, let's get this over with."

So in they all filtered, DA Lailah Reyes, the judge, the transcriber... Setting up at the foot of his hospital bed, while Setsuna and Nema stood off to the side. In the time it took to set up, Nema's face had grown from sour to soft in her sadness.

"Case number 4854, The People v. Michael Castle. Do you waive the reading of the charges?"

"Yes, Your Honor." Setsuna said, while Nema hugged the folders to her chest.

She wouldn't look Michael in the eye... despite all his glancing. Strange, how cut off that made him feel. It's not as if he'd known this woman for years, or anything...

"All right, then."

All he had to do was say 'Guilty, Your Honor.' And he would never have to see her brown eyes.

Frightened doe.

Cuts like a knife.

Melted chocolate.

"How does the defendant plead?"

He would never have to see her ever again.

"I plead not guilty."

At last, he felt the warm and welcome heat of Miss Page's gaze upon his bruised face. He didn't have to look to know that she was... happy. Rooting for him. Ready to fight for him, though even now he still couldn't understand why. It fueled him, nonetheless, sending a burning hot glare right at Lailah. "You hear that, bitch? I'm gonna watch you burn right along with me. You hear me?"

The judge beseeched Setsuna to keep him under control. Michael wished him luck in trying.

" _Do you hear me?"_

"I'm sorry, Your Honor!" Setsuna offered a bewildered apology as Michael glared hard at the suddenly fidgeting DA. He didn't want to peel his eyes away from her to check, but silently hoped that Nema, inexplicably, was doing the same. After all, the woman had a stare on her that cut like a knife. He'd know. He'd been on the receiving end of it.

The judge spoke through the tension. "The defendant has entered a plea of not guilty. Due to the nature and severity of the crimes he is accused of, bail is denied. A court date will be set upon consultation with the DA's office. We are adjourned."


	4. Verbal Artillery

**The War for Hell's Kitchen  
** _Verbal Artillery  
_ By: Brenli

Here she was... once again, about to enter the cage in which a lion was restrained. Yet after stirring memories out of him in the hospital, after he'd come forward with the reassurance that he'd never intended to harm her – so genuine in his hurt and roughed-up voice – and especially after Michael had plead not guilty, and she'd felt the inexplicable thrill of... of adrenaline, of an aggressive happiness, of something she assumed Michael would label as 'battle ready'... the initial fear had dulled into little more than apprehension for their surroundings.

Most people didn't particularly like prisons, but for her it recalled her own time spent in a cell... the bed sheet the officer had wrapped tight around her throat, the struggle to breathe, the desperation pushing her to claw at his eyes and scream like a wild animal until help arrived. It reminded her of how she didn't feel comfortable wearing necklaces with short chains for a month, and how even now she didn't usually pull her bed sheets up to her chin, anymore. And so her eyes shifted from side to side as she was escorted, even though she knew she was safe.

Nema didn't stop glancing about until she was, once again, standing before him. Michael was sitting, this time, cuffed to a plain metal table. Wearing the usual orange jumpsuit that almost matched his hair.

No more tape.

"Hi, Michael."

"Miss."

Her responding smile was immediate, fading only because his own lips only offered a gentle twitch. But she wasn't afraid. Setsuna and Uriel both had been so cautious about her showing up alone, and it had taken reminding them _both_ how Michael had only really started interacting when it was with her, by herself. She didn't know why... but it was what it was. He responded to her, so it was only right that she continue to be the liaison for the case. She didn't know why, or how, or when. But they had established trust.

The officers shut her in with him, but it didn't bother her. "So, um... We've been looking over similar cases..." She opened the folder she had cradled against her chest, going through papers. "Legal precedents, and we think it would help if we brought forth someone from your past. Someone from your military unit, who could speak to the nature of your service."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

Of course, with trust came sincerity, and that meant receiving his abrasive comments and his confused, furrowed brow. She supposed most people would have been offended, but she appreciated the honesty. He didn't ask to be cruel, one look in the eyes showed that. So she explained simply, "It's a character witness. We put someone on the stand who knows you well. Can speak to what you've been through."

And then he laughed, and Nema could tell from the dismissive scoffing sound of it that this time, it was a touch mean. "PTSD?"

"We think it would greatly help with your defense." Nema said in softer tones.

A tone meant to explain the idea without feeling forceful, but nonetheless Michael couldn't help but feel greatly... greatly annoyed. Not a feeling he wanted to have for the girl fighting in his corner. Really? PTSD? "No. We're not doing that." He had to remind himself that it wasn't as if he'd known this girl for years and years. She didn't know him, even if she'd gone through his house and given him a photo and reached out unlike anyone else. Willingness to know him wasn't the same as _actually_ knowing him, and she was going to make mistakes, make assumptions that were wrong and he ought to be nice. "It's a fucking insult."

Not the nicest thing he could've said but it certainly wasn't the worst, either, and Nema took it in stride – Michael needed to remember, she was a brave damn woman. That her gentle face was misleading. "Lots of veterans experience it."

"I'm not talking about me. I'm talking about them. It's an insult to _them_ , who are actually fucking going through it." He allowed himself to glare at her. She was all chocolate doe eyes, but she stared back, dead on. "You're trying to label me. Some other case of some crazy-ass combat vet who lost his damn mind, huh? Right?" The more he said it, the more he had a hard time imagining that Nema would honestly come up with this plan. It just didn't... _sound_ like her, like the woman who'd broken into his house with no idea that he never went back there. Like the woman who had burst past that arbitrary line of red tape to push him back into the fight. Like the woman who strove for the truth, just as badly as he wanted to. This plan didn't sound like something she would have cosigned... But that made him all the more angry. "Maybe that'll appeal to some shitbag jury in some shitbag court!"

Her arms dropped away from her chest, resting the folder against one pencil skirt wearing hip, and she looked so... exposed.

And he fired upon her, verbally. "It wasn't on a battlefield...! That's _not_ when my life went to shit." He was over this subject. He wanted to get it as far away from the both of them as possible. "Now Miss, I believe you told me that you were gonna find me answers. That's what you said to me. Do you have anything for me or not?"

"Not that easy." She shot back. She wore the wounds of his words on her face, but she shot back.

But Michael could handle a little fight. "That what you want? You want things to be fuckin' easy?"

That was when the doe eyes in her face went sharp as Hell, cutting like a knife, and she rained her argument down on him like heavy artillery. "You are on trial for multiple homicides and you _don't_ have a defense strategy in place! You don't cooperate with us, it doesn't _matter_ if I help you figure out who killed your family; you will never see justice! All you will do, the rest of your life, is _rot_ in a God damn jail cell!" By the time she was finished, her face had gone from the usual rosy cheeks to outright, outraged red, only making her glare all the sharper. The remaining breath she had came out of her in a shudder, and it felt like the way the dust begins to settle on the ground after it had been rocked with weaponry.

He stared at her as she fumed. He'd hurt her. She'd fought back. Brave damn woman. "Colonel Kamael Schoonover. My old CO." Now he was gentle, soft-voiced, though in the same moment he knew he wouldn't have done so if it had been that bumbling Setsuna in the room, or Uriel. But Miss Nema Page, she deserved... he didn't know. A balm. An apology.

She sighed in what felt like relief, like the release of remaining adrenaline, and penned the name down on one of her papers. Michael wasn't sure that felt like an apology accepted, which... actually, cut more than all the words she'd shot at him.

But he wasn't the type to give up. "Let's forget the PTSD defense. But if you want a character witness, the colonel, he will do."

Nema nodded and spoke quietly, too quietly. It felt cold and cut off. "Thank you."

Shit, this woman sure knew how to bring the pain. "Now, Miss... do you have anything for me?" He paused. "Maybe I just oughta go back and rot in my God damn jail cell...?"

Her lashes fell over her face – still a bit red, like it took a while for it to recover – and she smiled, which prompted his own weak and awkward twitch of the lips. "Don't do that. That was cruel of me to say."

"No, I deserved that one. Sorry." When was the last time he'd ever said 'sorry' for anything? He couldn't remember, but it didn't matter. "Just didn't... sound like a plan you'd make."

She blinked back at him and sighed through her nose. "... It wasn't, but we're scrambling to build a case for you. That said, it needs to be tailored to what you want."

"You know what I want."

"I do." Nema nodded. "And that's what makes this case very difficult to navigate. But we'll get there." She cleared her throat. "Anyway... yeah, I did some digging." She stepped forward and sat across from him, setting down her folder and opening it. "There are huge moving parts, and they do _not_ want to be seen." She spoke as she spread out papers all across the table.

Michael's eyes scanned across each sheet, and felt himself sink a little. "I've already looked at all of those; done it a hundred times."

"Sure," Nema agreed, "But you haven't done it with me."

Their eyes met, and he couldn't have looked away if he tried. Those melted-chocolate eyes commanded his attention, demanded that he persevere. He could only look away when she did, and even then it was to go over the same papers and pictures, piece by agonizing piece, together. No longer alone.


	5. The Problem with Volunteered Aid

**The War for Hell's Kitchen  
** _The Problem with Volunteered Aid  
_ By: Brenli

Michael hated to say it, but there were some striking similarities between life holed up in his cell and life in the barracks.

Issued clothing. Check.

Uncomfortable fucking cot for a bed. Check.

Shit for lighting. Check.

Water that never really got warm enough. Check.

He used that water, anyway, because he figured he should probably shave the stubble from his face. Even now, his face was tender all over. Running the razor over his skin made him wonder if he might accidentally peel the skin right off his cheek.

After splashing water on his freshly-shaved face, he looked into the dingy mirror at himself and thought of how he looked in the photo Nema had given to him.

He couldn't see it. Couldn't see how that man and him were the same. But they had to be, there was no way around it.

But he couldn't see any traces of that happiness on himself, now. Attempts to ease the tension in his brow, the determined set of his jaw... impossible. Forget smiling, at least, not like the one he'd worn in that photo. So fucking wide and bold he was surprised his head hadn't snapped in half from it. He couldn't... fathom that level of joy, anymore.

Recounting memories with the help of that brown-eyed girl had been the closest he'd come in so, so long.

He sighed, realizing that despite shaving, he still looked like a damn wreck. The bruises were clearing but still stained him over in unappealing colors. Why had he bothered trying? It wasn't like this was about winning, or denying his kills. He wasn't here to sugarcoat the shit he'd done and the shit he still wanted to do.

He was here to fight, in the only way left available to him. There wasn't any real point in looking 'good,' as if that was going to win him any points with the jury.

Shit... Michael didn't envy the jury choosing process. Weren't they supposed to be unbiased parties? Good luck with that.

He looked up when he heard the tap of metal cuffs on the bars of his cell, and complied silently, holding out his hands to be cuffed, letting them cuff his ankles, too. Striding off to a whole other kind of war, one he had no experience in.

At least he had Nema on his side. She wasn't even the actual lawyer in his defense, yet he had more faith in her than he did in the bumbling sandy-haired man or the even the long-haired blind one who – he'd definitely noted – skipped out on their meeting in the hospital.

No, Miss Nemaelle Page was the one who was actually invested, for whatever reason he couldn't understand, and so she was the one he hinged on. Even if he felt guilty about that.

As he strode ever closer to the large, polished, wooden double doors, he heard the announcement, "The trial of The People of New York v. Michael Castle is now in session."

The doors parted into utter silence, which was just as well. He wasn't here to be a spectacle. He was here to fight. No more, no less. He was comfortable with the clinking of the metal links of his chains as he was led before the judge, and then ushered over to his seat beside that brave damn woman. He gave a small nod to her and greeted quietly, "Miss."

She lit up, just like she had when they met in the prison. "Michael." She said in a whisper.

Tearing his gaze away from hers felt quite literal, and when he nodded to Setsuna, he received some brief jerk of the head in response before he went back to shuffling through papers again.

Then he noticed. "... The big guy?"

"Uriel?" Nema whispered back. "He should be in, soon."

"From the looks of it, I think our friend here doesn't think so."

"He'll be here." She said with a quiet fierceness, brown eyes biting into his blue-green gaze.

Hmm. He'd tapped on something. Her legs had already been crossed, but were now more tightly so, her foot bouncing in a nervous tic she didn't seem conscious of. She'd twisted her pale gold hair up, today, and pinned it in place with two pens. She looked good.

Hey, he could think that a lady looked good. Wasn't his problem that it was the truth... "So. You in the habit of carrying around three pens?"

"What?" Nema blinked at him, the third pen resting in her fingers, one hand twisting it about. "... Oh." She smiled, quietly laughed his comment off. "A secretary can never have too many pens."

They heard the sound of a clearing throat, and looked over to see Setsuna nervously filling a glass of water. "Today of all days... I mean, he said he'd be late, but this is ridiculous."

Nema sighed and suddenly leaned toward him, and it was only then when Michael realized he probably shouldn't be sitting so casually with his legal team like they were all best friends or some shit. He straightened up and looked forward, but that didn't stop him from overhearing her speak. "Setsuna, what is going on with him?"

"I really, really wanted to ask you the same question."

"All rise." The bailiff spoke, making the both of them straighten up and stand beside Michael. "Court is now in session..." he went through the usual motions of starting a court hearing, but all the defendant could think was that if the guy who was supposed to be fighting for him wasn't here, he was already in hot water. Fuck... was it too late to make Nema his official legal counsel? At least she was _here._ At least he knew with complete certainty she was on his side.

They were seated, and as the judge instructed the jury, Nema and Setsuna fell into worried whispering.

Off to a great start, clearly.

"Ms. Reyes, are the People ready to begin opening statements?"

"More than ready, Your Honor."

Of course the bitch was ready. She had the upper hand. Michael didn't see the point in listening to her, instead overhearing Nema quietly stammer. "There's no way Uriel misses this, right?"

"Honestly, Nema?"

"Hey... Hey, no. There's no way. This is too big to skip out on-"

"This man is no hero." Lailah Reyes had stepped close enough to pause their conversation, and from Michael's peripheral he could see Nema deliver the most cutting of chocolate-eyed glares to her.

He may not have known her long, but he could feel all the expletives she silently shot at the DA, knew what kinds of colorful things she wanted to say. Yeah, it felt damn good to have her fighting in his corner.

"He's a serial killer." Lailah continued. "And he is guilty." She offered the judge her thanks before striding back to her seat.

Well, she wasn't wrong. Michael had wrestled with those truths for so long that hearing them launched like weapons did very little to him.

"Mr. Nelson," The judge went on, "Are you prepared to make your opening statement?"

A pause. Setsuna shuffled through flash cards.

"Mr. Nelson, are you reserving the right to make your statement at a later time?"

Michael looked over to see Setsuna sighing. "Screw it..." He muttered under his breath, and his chair squeaked against the floor as he stood, his fingers fumbling nervously against his cards. "No, Your Honor, um... the defense is ready to proceed." He shuffled through those cards. "Uh, ladies and gentlemen of the jury... the defendant, Michael Castle, is not..." He paused. "Sorry..." He muttered. "Um... Mr. Castle is as much a victim..." Again, he paused. "No, he's not."

Michael shifted his gaze to the back of Nema's head, to Setsuna, to Nema again. Setsuna dropped his cards onto the table. This was crashing and burning, fast...

"Okay, so..." Setsuna started in earnest, hands in his pockets. "You're 19. Standing in hot sand... Sun burning down... Noise. Yelling, gunfire. The only thing that you know for sure is that you're surrounded by an enemy that wants you dead." Setsuna moved beyond the table to stand before the judge and jury. "But you do it. You endure it. Why? Because you have orders. And you have a duty. And also because your life doesn't end here. You have people you love waiting at home. Because, aside from being a decorated Marine... the man before you is a good husband and an excellent father."

Michael glanced away from Setsuna to see Nema smiling, encouraging silently. Well, Setsuna wasn't wrong, either.

"Michael Castle returned from the Hell of war wanting nothing more than to pick up his life. But his wife, and his young daughter were brutally murdered by criminals, and no one, not the police, and certainly not the District Attorney stepped up to make it right. See, Michael Castle never came home. He just traded in one war zone for another."

One of the double doors clicked open, and in shuffled Uriel, dark glasses, cane and all. The look on Setsuna's face... shit, Michael thought he'd probably like to beat the guy with his cane.

But he carried on. "This trial isn't about vigilantes. It's about the failure of the justice system. And how one man, Michael Castle, is being used as a pawn to cover up that system's mistakes. The prosecution wants blood." He pointed at Lailah. "But as the judge just said, to get it, they have to prove their case beyond a reasonable doubt. So all I'm asking of you today is... keep an open mind." He exhaled. "That's all, Your Honor."

As Setsuna moved back to his seat, Michael couldn't help himself. "That was a pretty thick slice of bullshit there, counselor." He anticipated Setsuna's tired sigh as Uriel joined them, but not the sharp heel of Nema's black patent leather shoe swinging over and tapping him. She was giving him a tired look, cutting like a knife, and he shrugged slightly. Hey, he was just being honest.

But Uriel stole away her attention as he sat with a whispered apology.

"Where the Hell have you been?" Nema's own whisper was sharp, and Michael could already imagine the glare she was giving him. It was a good thing Uriel was blind, then; he'd be impervious to it.

"I'm really sorry," Uriel merely repeated, "But Setsuna, you did so well...!"

"We can talk about this later." Setsuna spoke so flatly, so firmly compared to his usual vocal habits.

Yeah, their blind buddy was in trouble. But Setsuna was right, they ought to be listening to this legal circus...

"... And so, Dr. Tepper, the medical examiner's office can confirm that the 15 victims found at the Irish Social Club all died of multiple gunshot wounds." Raziel Tower spoke while Lailah sat calmly in her seat.

Dr. Dobiel Tepper was clearly nervous, fidgety, lips thinning. "Yes, that's correct." He adjusted his glasses, yet another nervous tic. Michael knew his nervousness would be ignored. "Um, all 15 victims died of wounds inflicted by the same caliber bullet. Each shot multiple times." He – again, nervously – bit at the flesh around his thumbnail.

And, of course, the nerves went unacknowledged. "Thank you." Raziel said placidly before he turned to the defense. "Your witness."

Michael heard the slightly awkward fumbling of Uriel's cane and looked over. Well, after the near heart attack Setsuna had, Uriel sure owed him. He assumed Uriel was the more confident one in the duo... he hoped.

"Dr. Dobiel Tepper," Uriel started as he stood, pausing only long enough to catch the witness' heartbeat. Faint but flighty. He'd probably need a glass of water, soon. "How long have you been medical examiner for the city of New York?"

"F-fourteen years. Give or take."

"And how many death certificates would you estimate you've signed in that time?"

Just that question alone already had Dobiel blanching. "Huh? Uh... I-I... I don't, uh..."

Uriel approached the bench slowly, with a calm gait punctuated by the steady tap of his cane. "It's probably in the tens of thousands."

"Objection, Your Honor, leading the witness." Lailah called out, voice cold. Maybe even bored. Michael wouldn't have been surprised if she was. "I'm not sure where."

"Mr. Murdock-" The judge began.

"I have something I need to say." Dobiel suddenly blurted out, hands shaking. "Your Honor, I'm sorry, but... I have to, on the record..." He wet his nervous lips. "I need to say something about what I did."

What the Hell...? Michael sat up a little straighter, and saw that Nema had done the same, her legs crossing a bit tighter in the process.

The bailiff went through the motions of clearing the gallery at the judge's demand, and though Uriel was blind, his dark brow furrowed. His head tilted, trying to read the man he'd been about to put through the wringer with his questions. Was he about to confess that he falsified his reports? Already?

"That means you too..." Nema said quietly, turning to Michael.

"What the fuck is..." He wondered out loud as he was escorted to stand.

"I don't know, he might be..." Nema dropped into silence, but he read her lips clearly. 'Confessing.'

"... No way." Too easy. That would be way too fucking easy. "Miss, sorry. I don't believe you."

What else could she do but gesture helplessly, as they lead him away?

And it was exactly as they'd thought. With only the defendant's lawyers, the DA and her assistant, and the judge, Dobiel confessed. "I... I falsified the autopsy reports."

"You're referring to the official findings on the murders of Michael Castle's family?" Uriel jumped to clarify what the nerve-wracked doctor meant.

"Not... just them. You don't understand...! I _had_ to do it!" Dobiel's eyes darted about, pleading with everyone in the room. "Those animals came to my office...!"

"Who came to your office?" The judge queried.

"After the defendant's family was murdered, two men I've never seen before... they warned, if I didn't fix the case reports... they'd come after my family next...!"

"You falsified the autopsy findings on the Castle family?" The judge asked for the sake of the records being transcribed.

Dobiel nodded. "Them, and one more."

"Who?" The question was out of Uriel's mouth before he could stop himself. This was unbelievable... All the time spent working around hypothetical statements he was sure Dr. Tepper would make... None of it needed.

"I don't know." Dobiel sighed. "Some John Doe killed the same day. Male, adult, multiple gunshot wounds. Look," He glanced at a very tense Lailah, at Uriel, at the judge. "You can fire me, arrest me, I don't care. I thought this was behind me, but after last night..."

"Did something happen last night to impact your testimony?" The judge leaned toward Dobiel with an incredulous, furrowed brow.

"She was in my house...!" Dobiel spluttered. "She tied me up!" He raised the cuffs on his dress shirt to reveal flesh gone raw from being bound. "She said she didn't give a damn who got to me before. If I didn't tell the defense what really happened, she'd hunt me down! Kill me...!"

As Dobiel spoke, heart rate running so terribly fast, breath subtly punctuating each sentence with his nerves, Uriel's grip on his cane began to slip. A woman... who threatened to hunt him down. Kill him...

"Who told you this?"

"I don't know...!" Dobiel cried. "A woman. Her face was covered. Had some foreign accent."

And then there was no more doubting. Zephyrel. Zephyr had done this, and likely viewed it as a huge favor. Trying to be helpful with his day job... But this was... no. Not this way. He had a feeling that all her help was about to shoot him in the foot...

"Your Honor, I believe the defense intends to distract the jury and make this case about some impossible-to-prove conspiracy theories-" Lailah started, standing, her steps leaving hard tacking sounds across the floor.

"Impossible to prove?" Uriel interrupted her. "Your ME just confirmed that he doctored the autopsy records!"

"He also said that he'd been threatened!" Lailah shot back. "If my office finds out that your firm had anything to do with this-"

"Our firm?" Setsuna, long since frustrated, began snapping. "For all we know, it was _you_ who sent those goons!"

"I've heard enough." The judge sighed. "It's clear to me that whatever Dr. Tepper may know about these autopsy reports has been tainted by threats made by person or persons unknown."

"Then the defense asks for a mistrial." Setsuna immediately requested.

But the judge wasn't quite as helpful. "Not on your life, Mr. Nelson. I'm still not convinced these documents, whatever they may be, are even relevant to this trial. I'm striking the doctor's entire testimony and instructing the jurors to disregard anything they may have heard."

No... no no no no. This _wasn't_ going to help them. Uriel tapped his way forward. "Your Honor, I strongly urge you to-"

"We're done here, counselor...!" One day into the trial and the judge was already fed up. "Trial will reconvene tomorrow with the prosecution's next witness."

And there it was. The damage was done. Zephyr may have meant well but it had blown up in his face, a bomb he'd never asked to handle, to begin with.

Uriel could hear his colleagues gathering their paperwork, Nema releasing the kind of sigh he heard from her when she was tired and disappointed. He reached out to her and felt her grasp his fingers, listening to Setsuna hurry away in the kind of silence that spoke volumes. "Are you okay?" He asked Nema.

"I'm not the one you should be asking that to." She said softly, sadly. "You should talk to him; it's been a rough day for him the most, out of all of us..."

"I know you're right..." He sighed, frowning. "I'm going. But... you _are_ okay, right? Setsuna told me you've kind of been... roped into Castle duty."

She laughed. "You make it sound like I'm babysitting the guy."

"If only."

"He's... honestly, fine." Saying that out loud felt... strange. And yet it was the truth, and that relieved her. "He's hurting. But underneath all of that, I find him... easy to talk to. He's very sincere." She squeezed his hand before releasing it. "Now go talk to Setsuna. I'll wait for you both in the hall."


	6. Shut Out

**The War for Hell's Kitchen  
** _Shut Out  
_ By: Brenli

"Hey... Hey, I heard yelling...!"

"Yeah, you should talk to Uriel about it."

"Setsuna!"

The harsh, hard sound of the door slamming made Uriel jump as he faked having to tap his way out of the restroom. The worst part of all of this? He understood his friend's anger. He'd consistently disappeared during the times he was most sorely needed. Hadn't put in the time that this case deserved. Showed up late, which effectively threw Setsuna to the wolves that were the prosecution and the judge and the jury. He deserved the rage directed at him...

But he was doing the best that he could, even as he floundered about like a fool. Trying to keep Zephyr out of the rest of his life... though now she'd effectively wedged her way in. His immediate instinct was to rail against it. To want to shove her as far away as possible. Get her out of the daylight life, his life as a lawyer, a man who worked _within_ the law and didn't threaten witnesses into playing along nicely...!

Yet Uriel found himself swallowing the lump in his throat. Try as he might to keep Zephyr out of his daylight life... she interwove perfectly into his nighttime life. And so he couldn't... quite block her out. Not truly. It had to be all or nothing, and he...

He didn't want to think about this right now. Moments like this, he was so happy that Nema was a part of his life. He didn't need to see to feel the warmth of her smile, the gentleness of her self...

"Hey! What the Hell happened in there?"

Okay. Okay, maybe she wasn't going to be the usual soothing balm to the frustrations of his life. But maybe he couldn't blame her for that. It had been a rough day for all of them, even if she'd tried to shift his focus away from her. That didn't change the fact that surely she was let down. All the time spent working with Michael Castle, alone... he honestly should have been there beside her. … Right? "We're fine." He said tensely, trying to shut out the nerves that struck him. Fierce heartbeat. Sharp tone of voice. The harder tack of her heels on the floor. He could even feel the air flowing through her hair as she stalked up to him... She was angry. The last thing he wanted was to deal with her anger...

"No no no no no!" Each word felt like a stab between his shoulder blades. He hated associating her with such an idea. This wasn't how he viewed her. This wasn't how he wanted it to be. "You don't treat me like I'm just your secretary! Talk to me!"

Was that how she thought he treated secretaries? Block them out coldly? No, this was just how he... how he was when he couldn't bear any more weight.

"I've done more work on this case than _you_ have!"

It was the truth, and it disgusted him. "I can't get into this right now, Nema." He heard, felt her suck in a breath. He'd hurt her. Again.

"No!"

It was loud. It was a commotion. Uriel didn't want to deal with this...

" _Enough_ of the dodgy bullshit!" The cry struck hard; her face was radiating heat. "I deserve to know what is going on with you two! With you."

She did. She deserved honesty, but he couldn't give it. He just couldn't. A muscle ticked in Uriel's jaw as he gripped hard to the handle of his cane. Took a breath to try and calm himself. He wasn't sure that it worked. "Are you asking as my coworker?" Another breath. "Or my girlfriend?"

Her own breathing paused. Held itself in before releasing in an irritated sigh. "Both."

Because that's what she was. She was both. Even without his life as Daredevil, there were more than enough people who would've said that was a problem. "Yeah." He was dismissive, he tried to brush her away. She had nothing but aggression to give him, and he had more than enough of that, already. "I'm sorry you're caught in the middle of this, but right now I have to go." He turned away from her, began to leave.

A hurt scoff left her. "Where?"

Home. But he didn't want her there with him, not now. "I'll see you tomorrow, Nema."

"No." She insisted, tapping the button for the elevator. "No, Uriel!"

"Nema-"

"Is this how it's going to be whenever we have a disagreement?" She fumed. "'I'll see you tomorrow, Nema!'" She mocked him in a deep voice.

Uriel had just about enough. "Are you finished acting like a child?"

"Are you?"

Times like this, he was actually glad to be blind. It gave him a good excuse for not turning to face her directly. The elevator opened, and to his dismay, she stepped inside with him. At least they weren't alone... it meant that they couldn't continue their argument.

No, not until Nema flagged a cab for him. Which honestly... made him feel even more disgusting. This poor girl who just wanted to be let in, beating against the rock-solid door he presented with both fists and screaming... and she still had the decency to help him get home.

She also was still beating on that figurative door, sliding into the cab with him. "Nema-"

"I apologize for mocking you."

That wasn't the problem... "I really need to be alo-"

"I need to be with you." She spoke in mutters, not wanting the driver to feel uncomfortable. "I'm sorry if you think that's selfish. I don't think it is. This is about us."

"What happened in the court house is not about us." Uriel sighed.

"You brushing me off and pulling the Secretary Card has a lot to do about us." She grumbled. He could hear the rumpling of fabric; she was gripping her skirt. "We can hold off on this until we're in your place."

Uriel jumped at the chance for silence, but it was hardly what he would have liked. Every single heartbeat of the way, he felt the tension coming off of her in wave after wave. This quietness wasn't going to last long... He was dreading it. What happened to the gentle girl who he'd saved...?

Up they went to his loft, and when he opened his door, she moved in like she was afraid he intended to shut the door on her. "Nema-"

"I want you to tell me about the paying client."

Not one second in and suddenly she was unleashing a brand of cruelty he hadn't known she carried. How did she do that? One sentence and it felt like she was accusing him of infidelity. "It's not important."

"It's obviously _very_ important, Uriel!" Nema snapped. "Who is it and what exactly do they want with you?"

"It's not your business, Nema!" In frustration, his hands moved through his hair, took out the tie holding it back in the low, smooth ponytail he'd put it in for the trial.

The harsh tap of heels came closer and closer to him. "It _is_ my business! As your girlfriend and as your secretary!" She spat out the last word; it felt like a bullet in his brain. "This client is taking you away from us, Uriel. From Setsuna _and_ from me. We need you!"

"What do you want?" Uriel yelled out, exasperated. "More bar nights at Josie's?"

"Not with that attitude. Not if it's like pulling _teeth_ to get you to be Uriel and not Mr. Murdock the lawyer!"

That hit too hard; felt too much like a conflict he'd been struggling with for too long, now. "Then what is it? What do you _want?_ "

"I want you to _want_ to be around, Uriel!" She was incredulous, heartbeat thumping hard, voice shaky in outrage and in hurt. "If this paying client is eating up so much of your time, okay, but then you need to _share_ that with me! With Setsuna, too!"

"Fine! This paying client is eating up my time! Happy?" He wasn't sure where that had come from.

From her response, it was clear she didn't know, either. "... See? Can you blame me for wanting to pry? Any time it comes up you brush us off. Suddenly Setsuna's just a business colleague. Suddenly... I'm just a secretary."

Uriel drew out a long, frustrated sigh through his nose.

"... You have nothing to say about that?"

"Look... I think... that we're all getting our roles mixed up." This sounded terrible.

Nema definitely felt the same. "Our roles." Her voice was flat.

"Yes..." He struggled to lay out his thoughts. "We're all friends, and we all work together. But... we need for those things to not... blend together. They're different things."

A pause. He felt her glare like knives in his face.

"This is honestly a common problem with lots of people so I'm not... going to blame anyone for it. But we need to establish working relationships that are different from our personal ones. It... it will be better in the long run, once we've all figured it out."

"I'm confused what any of that has to do with you hiding a client from us that is literally dealing massive blows to both our _personal_ relationships and our _working_ ones."

"The client shouldn't have any weight on our personal relationships!"

"But it _does!_ " She yelled, shrill in all her upset. "You can't be this obtuse about it! Your _working_ relationship with this client is causing Setsuna's and my _working_ relationship with Michael to suffer! Which is, by the way, a relationship _you're_ supposed to be involved in! So here we are, your friend and your girlfriend, stressed out, and what is your reaction to us? On a _personal_ level?"

"Nema-"

"To shun us! Suddenly Setsuna isn't your friend, and I'm not your girlfriend! Your _personal_ relationships with us? They _disappear!_ So don't tell me that this client has no weight on our _personal_ relationships! That's a lie and I won't stand for it!"

… He didn't know what to say. A heavy sigh left him, as he moved to the kitchen, gingerly grabbed a glass and began filling it with water.

"Still nothing to say?"

"I've said all I can." He took a sip, cold water through his even colder self.

"... Wow." A whisper so low he assumed Nema was banking on him not hearing it. Not hearing the hurt... "Fine." She steeled herself, and Uriel hated that she had to do it. "Then let's look at this from a _working_ relationship."

"You can stop with the tone." He grumbled.

"I'm going to take whatever tone I want in order to get you to understand that from a _working_ relationship, you're failing Setsuna and you're failing me. You were the one who wanted to take on the Castle case, in the first place. And then you consistently drop the ball. Cut out on meetings. Skip out. Push the workload onto us."

"You're the one who said you find him easy to talk to!"

"That's _not_ the point! At all!" She snapped. "So what if I don't mind his company? My personal feelings aren't going to win this case! If Michael's going to make it through this, then he _needs_ you to fight for him! I'm not his lawyer! It's not all on me!"

Uriel set the glass of water down a bit too hard. "You act like you're the only one defending him, Nema! You're not the one who made the opening statement-"

"You're right! Setsuna did! Even though it was agreed that _you_ were going to be the one to do it!"

"I ran late! I'm sorry!"

"Sorry doesn't cut it, Uriel! Not in a court of law. You shouldn't need me to tell you that!"

"So you're a lawyer, now?"

Nema pulled the pens from her hair, and Uriel heard the faint, silky tumble of her locks down her back. She ruffled her hair in frustration. "No, you know that I'm not. All the rules and the loopholes; I don't want to navigate any of it."

"Then stop telling me how to do my job." Oh, Uriel knew he was being cruel, but he couldn't find a way out of this conversation. A way to diffuse the anger. A way to make things better. All he could do was blindly stand in the muck Nema rained down on him. "It's either that or you take an honest shot at it, Nema. You can't critique this with no knowledge of how it works!"

"Excuse me while I go pass the bar exam then." She said sullenly. "As if that fixes anything. One day into Michael's trial and it already feels like a circus; I tell you that and your response is to tell me to take it all on myself? What, do your dance? Watch as the truth gets lost in legal groundwork?"

"You need to be more optimistic than that..." Uriel needed her to be more like the Nema he enjoyed being with, the Nema who soothed him.

But she was nowhere to be found. "Why? Tell me I'm wrong. The truth gets lost in the jargon. The truth gets lost too often."

He sighed. "Not every case will be The People v. Michael Castle."

"It's not _just_ this case. It's..." It was herself, framed for murder, sitting in a cell, and getting violently strangled with a bed sheet. It was how people who were meant to work within the parameters of justice could be terrifyingly crooked. How she could have gone to jail for a crime she didn't commit. It was people, it was family, she tried hard not to think about. It was about the confused murkiness that the justice system only further muddled...

"What?" Uriel barked out in tiredness.

"It's just... _it_. Everything about it." She paused. "Do you believe in what he does?"

"Who? Michael?"

"He's the one you're defending, right?" Nema responded flatly.

Uriel's eyes blindly shifted about the table before he turned toward his fridge. He was going to need a beer, now. "I believe in the law, Nema. He clearly works outside of it."

"What about when the law fails? Like it did with him. Like it did with me."

"With you?" Uriel popped the cap off the bottle and brought it to his lips. He was going to need several beers, he was sure.

"Yeah, with me." Nema said firmly. "What are we supposed to turn to? What should we believe will protect us, then?"

"What do you want me to say, Nema?" He asked tiredly. "I'm a lawyer. I'm supposed to make the law work, I have to believe in the law." His jaw set as he tried hard to refuse the suit, the mask that he donned at night. "What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know...!" She sighed helplessly. "I keep asking myself if there's really a difference between..." The plastic of the pens creaked in her hands. Uriel knew she was twisting and pressing on them. "Between someone who saves lives and someone who prevents lives from needing to be saved at all."

Uriel chewed at the insides of his cheeks. "Are you bringing Daredevil into this?"

"I don't know. I guess I am. I'm just-"

"Didn't he save you? Multiple times?"

"Yes! He did!" Nema yelled in bewildered anger. "But that's not the point-"

"Then what is?" Uriel tried hard not to sound too... irritated. Angry. Insulted. "First you tell me the system I work for fails, now you're saying even the Devil of Hell's Kitchen has failed. So what's the point, Nema? You think the... the _Punisher_ is successful? Michael Castle should be behind bars...!"

Another pause that felt like knives.

He groaned and drummed his fingers on his kitchen counter. "He deserves a fair trial, yes. But he's murdered people...!"

"Bad people. Like the ones who killed his family. Or the ones who came after me."

Where was this coming from...? "It's not Michael's decision who lives or dies, Nema. That's up to God."

His ears picked up the helpless, moody exhale of breath.

"Sometimes a jury. What happened to Michael's family is a tragedy, Nema, but that doesn't give him the right to kill-"

"No, that's not what I'm saying! That's not, that's...!" She stammered, he heard her set down the pens on the counter. "That's not what I'm saying! I'm just saying that I can _understand_ why Michael... why..." Again, she sighed. Wrestled with... with thoughts, and with memories... some near, and some very far away. But still there. "Why anyone would seek vengeance for something after... after losing it-"

"No." Uriel suddenly spoke all the more harshly. "That's _not_ the same. Vengeance is not justice...! That's what makes him different from the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, and even different from me."

"Did I _ever_ say Michael was the same as you? Daredevil, sure, but not in any way like you!" She paused when he suddenly leaned forward, mouth opening as though ready to scream at her.

But then he stopped. Straightened. Blind eyes darting about uselessly, revealed when he finally removed his dark glasses and set them on the counter beside his beer bottle. "What Michael's doing is _completely_ wrong!"

"But right or wrong, you can't deny that it works!" She cried out, firm, sharp.

Silence settled like she'd dropped an atomic bomb upon their entire conversation, the argument that had followed them all the way here.

Uriel had to take a deep breath before he replied. "... You really believe that?"

"I don't know!" Nema's hands pressed over her lips. Pressed together, as though praying for some clarity. "No." Her chocolate-doe eyes stared at the counter top, at her pens as they lay there. "... Maybe."

… Who was this girl? Uriel could hardly recognize her, anymore. He cleared his throat. "... This is a good time to call it a night." She hadn't moved an inch, but her breath shuddered; he could hear it. Her heart picked up in pace...

But of course it was, of course it was suddenly racing as she stared up into his blind eyes. Memories and secrets, building at her throat. He was firm and unforgiving... and cold... pushing her out, pushing her away when she hadn't even really begun. "... Don't."

"This conversation isn't going anywhere, Nema."

"Then _let_ it go somewhere."

"Nema, I'm tired-"

" _You're_ tired?" Nema's hands dropped and grabbed her pens. "Relationships take effort, Uriel."

Uriel lifted his beer bottle to find it empty. "You think I'm not putting in effort?" He allowed himself to sound outraged in all his hurt.

"You're not!" Nema met pain with pain. "I'm sorry, Uriel, but you're not! You just... _compartmentalized_ me! Told me there's a Girlfriend Me and a Secretary Me. But you don't want to talk with Girlfriend Me and you're upset that Secretary Me wants you to actually, I don't know, _work_ your case and _defend_ Michael, because that's what your job is!"

"I _want_ to talk with Girlfriend You, Nema!"

"No!" She suddenly yelled, but she seemed... panicked. Like a frightened animal. "No, you don't!"

"Yes, I do!"

"But only when she agrees with you, right?"

Uriel found himself speechless and struggling. "Nema, I don't understand."

"That's fine." Her voice broke. "I'm going back home, now."

God, help him... "Is this about the Castle case?"

A very beat up, very bitter laugh.

… Why would she take Michael's case so personally? "Nema, what he did was wrong...! It was just plain wrong!" He spoke louder and louder still, hearing her heels tap their way to the door, hearing the door creak open.

"Why did you volunteer to take his case if you hate what he did so much?" The door creaked shut, latched closed. Shutting him out.


	7. Between Pauses

**The War for Hell's Kitchen  
** _Between Pauses  
_ By: Brenli

"Where is he?" If she sounded on the edge of screaming, if she seemed beyond fed up, Nema had no apology for it. After their argument... after the way he'd treated her... and the yelling, and the... hands pressed as though in prayer, murmured 'maybe,' realizing the divide between them was so much larger than she thought...

She was upset. She had the right to be upset.

Especially after how she'd made it very, very clear how she felt about his tardiness... and he failed to show up _again_.

Setsuna was crossing her vision as he paced, back and forth, back and forth. "I, uh... may have told him to just stay home, today."

That certainly got her attention, brown eyes immediately focusing on him, glare cutting like a knife. "... You _what?_ "

"He wasn't supposed to actually do it...!" Setsuna scratched his head in nervousness that was becoming perpetual. Maybe if Uriel bothered to _care_ , he would have noticed how his lack of involvement in this case was putting the both of them at the ends of their ropes.

She'd had more than enough. "Setsuna, what the Hell _happened_ yesterday?" She stood, suddenly needing to do more than sit and be stationary, herself.

But Setsuna didn't want to recall the screaming that had gone on, or Uriel's confession that his college flame was the mysterious 'paying client' who was – probably even now – taking up all of his time and energy. "I can't do this alone...! I didn't even want to _take_ this case."

Nema could feel her heart sinking straight into her stomach. No, Setsuna had been vocal from the start that he wasn't for tackling this case. That it was so, so far over their heads, that it was basically career suicide. But with Uriel practically out of the picture, unreliable... Setsuna was all Michael had left. Sure, she was the liaison. Sure, she seemed to be the only one Michael would cooperate with. But she wasn't the one who was going to approach the bench, ask questions, make statements. Even if she _tried_ she wasn't qualified... "It... It'll be okay-"

"The whole city is watching. If I screw up, I'll never work again...!"

She knew, she knew, she knew.

"And frankly, _you'd_ probably never work again, either, by association, which-"

"Setsuna, _stop_ , stop." She spoke firmly, stared hard, which at least got the frazzled lawyer to button his worried lip. "Stop thinking about screwing up, about losing. You need to think about winning." Fake it till you make it, right? God, help them... that was all they had left, at this point.

So they made their way to their seats in the courtroom with as much feigned confidence as they could muster... which, for Setsuna, meant looking somewhere between a caffeine crash and outright depression. And for Nema...? Meant looking like she might cut a man.

"Miss."

She shut her eyes when he greeted her, and her smile was strained... Very untypical of this brown-eyed girl. As Michael was sat down in his chair beside her, head to toe orange, bruises fading bit by bit, day by day, he looked at her openly. Not the pencil skirt wearing, pens tucked into hair secretary from the other day. A plain plum dress that flared from the hip and stopped at the knees, a jeweled sparrow dangling from a chain so long the bird rested just above where her navel should be. Her hair parted sharply to one side, forming a curtain that blocked Setsuna from view. And obviously, would have blocked Uriel from view, too. If he was around.

"Man down again, huh?"

It was only then when she looked at him, eyes like melted drops of chocolate under pale sunlight locks of hair... lined in tears.

"Hey..." Speaking so quietly took most of the rough gravel from his voice.

"I'm so sorry, Michael." She was at once full of pain and full of anger; it almost made him think of himself. "You deserve better than this."

He blinked, blue-green meeting chocolate brown. Where was this coming from, why was he the one receiving all of this care...? It made no sense, even now. "... Death penalty? Rough."

"Not funny." Her heel swung over and struck his calf, glare suddenly cutting like a knife.

Just like before, he helplessly shrugged. Wore a sort of stumped bewilderment on his face, because why did she care as much as she did? No matter how damn good it felt to have her fighting in his corner, on his side. "Come on, Miss. Nobody won a battle looking like a sad little doe."

The eyes that earned her such a pet name – or, well, a nickname, a name – blinked rapidly enough that her lashes seemed to flutter. "No, that's not..." She sighed through her nose.

"Not what you're bummed about?"

"I mean, you bet I'm angry that he's not here, but if he's going to be a big baby about this, then fine. We can take this on without him, and we can rub all of our successes in his face."

Hmm. Michael stared at her as she glared hard at the folder set in front of her. He was surprised the folder wasn't bursting into flames or something. She was... livid. And he was damn happy that glare wasn't directed at him, right about now. He wasn't sure he would've survived it. "... You sure this isn't about the big guy?"

"It's...!" It wasn't. But it also absolutely was. Nema stumbled, stammered, pale fingers flexing uselessly in her lap. "It's... personal." And she hated that word. She thought if she heard the words 'personal' or 'working' again, she might explode. So the word felt like it had torn a gash in the roof of her mouth, and the pain of it subdued her. Made her pause before she gave him a tentative, side-long, doe-eyed look.

Sharing such a glance should have been difficult, but for all her upset, it really wasn't. Maybe she was just too used to sharing stares with him, like they could say things with their eyes when their voices might fail them. Hers certainly failed her, now. She didn't want to go into it.

And one look, one meeting of the eyes held and prolonged, let her know that he knew that. But that in knowing it, she revealed more than she wanted to. He was quiet, brow gently furrowed, and it reminded her of the hospital. When he was strapped to his bed and too lost to speak. When he stared at her like a hawk, reading her.

His mouth opened.

"All rise...!"

Saved by the bailiff. Nema used that time to get her bearings, to focus on gently encouraging Setsuna while thumbing through her papers. After all, being one man down meant that she needed to be more involved, even if she wasn't going to be the one standing and talking. Uriel might not be there with them, but she was going to pick up for the lack of him. Hopefully even more than that. Michael Castle deserved nothing less.

"Colonel Kamael Schoonover, United States Marine Corps." The latest witness spoke, his intonation so even it bordered on the robotic. A voice that took its time, and a body with posture almost too perfect to be believed.

But for Michael, at least, he was used to that. Didn't find it particularly noteworthy. He looked over to see Setsuna mumbling a comment – he distinctly picked out the word 'android' – and Miss Nema Page laughed very quietly in agreement. Yet that laughter never quite reached her eyes, which were cutting like a knife with every glance they took across her paperwork. She looked like she was out for blood... And yeah, maybe that made him proud. This brave damn woman.

"Counsel?" The judge called Setsuna forth, and after a sip of much-needed water, he stood.

"Colonel, how long have you known the defendant?"

"The better part of a decade." Plain. Direct. Not in any kind of hurry. "Most of his career in the Marine Corps."

It was vaguely unsettling. Setsuna cleared his throat. "So you're familiar with his service in the Middle East?"

"Yes. Very familiar."

Nema had a hard time imagining what it must be like to have this man for a CO. But if the glance at Michael showed anything at all, it was clear that he had some level of deep respect for him. As if just being in the general vicinity of a superior made his back straighten and turned his face sober, looking straight forward. It was a look at once both proud and humble; she felt like she was glimpsing at some past part of himself.

"Would mind telling us how Lieutenant Michael Castle won the Navy Cross?"

A pause. Lengthy. In the extreme.

Setsuna opened his mouth to repeat his question-

"Due to the nature of that mission, you'll have to understand that... the precise circumstances are classified."

Setsuna blinked and turned his worried head to look at Nema... who could only lightly shrug. What could they do? They'd just have to take whatever he was willing to tell.

"... How about the part that's not?" He asked tentatively.

Another lengthy pause, and this time Setsuna just waited patiently. "... Lieutenant Michael Castle was part of a small team. He was conducting a close target reconnaissance in the vicinity of the Hindu Kush." A pause. "The mission became compromised, taking enemy contact on three sides. Lieutenant Castle wanted to abort." Yet another pause. "Said the mission was a bust... pulling the plug would save lives. Officer in charge said 'no.'"

From Nema's peripheral, she could see Michael's finger begin a steady twitch. It almost looked like idle scratching, but also looked an awful lot like trigger pulling. Brown eyes shifted upward to glance at his bruised face; he seemed fine, albeit a bit distant. She couldn't blame him for that.

"And why was that?" Setsuna asked, after a pause that stretched on just too long for his nerves.

Michael's gaze suddenly shifted to look directly at the Colonel.

"... Maybe he wanted... more medals on his chest. Doesn't matter. Either way, Michael was right." Pause. "They were cut off... boxed into a canyon."

"... And what happened next?" Setsuna felt like he needed another drink of water, already.

"Within the first hour, the officer in charge of that mission... got his arm blown off. Lieutenant Castle assumed command. … His only goal was to get his men out alive. The enemy had set up... an ambush... at the only LZ that would accommodate one of our birds."

"Sorry, Colonel?"

Another pause, as though it took a good moment to process that not all military jargon was easily understood. "... An LZ is a landing zone... that can accommodate a helicopter." He continued, thankfully without needing to be prompted. "So the enemy... they block this landing zone, knowing it was the only shot the team had to get out alive. All they had to do was wait... they knew that Michael's team had to come to them."

"Fish in a barrel."

Colonel Kamael took so long to reply, Setsuna was afraid he didn't understand what he meant. "... So to speak. Only... fish don't know they're going to die. These men did."

Nema resolved to buy Setsuna a pint at Josie's after this mess.

"Michael went to the LZ all by himself... to draw the bastards away."

"Why didn't he order one of his men to do it? He certainly could have."

But Kamael shook his head. Just once. Slowly. "Not his style."

Nema could certainly agree with that, even if she hadn't known him long. He took it upon himself to get things done. To set things right. To stride right into danger like he was at home, there. She saw his trigger finger still twitching; it only stopped when he noticed she was looking at him.

"The men hear the fire fight break out... All Hell breaks loose. Michael against God knows how many."

Michael's eyes shifted away from the woman who was fighting for him, and his trigger finger started twitching again.

"And then there was silence. The team thinks, 'That's it. Michael is dead, and we're next.'" He paused, as he was so apt to do. "Next sound they hear... is the helos... the helicopters. They get to the landing zone... you know what they see?"

The last thing Setsuna wanted was to encourage more pausing. "What did they see, Colonel?"

"Castle, standing there, grinning. 32 muj surrounding him, all dead."

Setsuna turned his head to see Nema already looking at Michael, to see Michael turn his face away, his trigger finger going like crazy. The Colonel said he was grinning, then, but he wasn't grinning, now. The adrenaline of the time had long since left him; that event had happened so long ago. Michael couldn't even remember too much about it. It had been crowded out by other terrible recollections, much closer to home...

"Son of a gun cleared that entire LZ all by himself." Kamael continued.

"How?"

The Colonel shrugged, and it made him almost feel human. "By being Michael Castle."

"And his men survived?"

"All of them... Including the idiot officer... who got them trapped, in the first place."

This seemed like a good place to finally put this crawling testimony to rest. "If you had to sum up Michael Castle, how would you do it?"

"I would say... Michael Castle is a man who would... gladly give his life to keep others safe."

Michael finally turned his head back forward, and heard Nema gently sigh. He looked over to find her... finally, gently smiling. She looked so proud... of him? Doubtful. Setsuna, most likely. The guy was definitely stepping up to the plate in Uriel's absence, so...

"And the crimes he's accused of, today? Could the man you knew have committed them?"

"Absolutely not. The Lieutenant Michael Castle that I know... is a hero. A man who deserves our respect... and our gratitude." Yet another pause. "Not the same man."

"Thank you, Colonel." Setsuna turned to the judge. "No more questions, Your Honor." At _last_. He practically hurried to his seat, muttering toward Nema, "I think I just aged 10 years."

"You did well." But it wasn't Nema who spoke, it was Michael, in a low rumble with his trigger finger slowly calming. "Colonel's always been full of those weird, pregnant pauses."

"How about you?" Nema whispered, all chocolate doe eyes and softness he didn't deserve. Her gaze dropped to his hands, then moved back up. "Are you doing okay?"

His ginger brow gently furrowed, still struggling to understand why his being okay or not-okay mattered to her. "These aren't the stories that haunt me." No, he'd merely done what was necessary to save his group; there was no shame in that and there was no sorrow in it. He gently leaned forward to whisper specifically to her. "So you and the lawyer, huh? The blind one."

Her brown eyes shot wide as a frightened doe's... and she turned away from him, suddenly too interested in Lailah's questioning of the Colonel. "My father was in Vietnam. Do you know what my father told me about medals?"

"No, Ma'am."

"He said the only people who truly know what happened, are the ones who were there."

Nema's eyes grew sharp again, cutting like knives as her arms crossed tightly across her chest.

"You told a nice story, Colonel... but how can we know that it happened the way you described?"

Another pause. "Perhaps... I wasn't clear. I was there, Ma'am."

Michael saw a smile begin twitching at the corners of Nema's mouth, saw her fighting to keep it down to a moody frown as Lailah's confidence floundered.

"The officer that didn't listen to Michael... who got his men trapped... You're looking at him."

Chatter rose throughout the courtroom. "He wasn't planning on sharing that bit of information?" Setsuna wondered quietly.

"Because this is the story that haunts him." Michael shared simply, softly... then whispered to Nema. "Maybe he's not here because of the trouble in paradise?"

… Why was Michael _talking_ to her about this? They were in the middle of fighting for him! "I'm not discussing this right now." She stammered, confused. Their eyes met, blue-green and brown, reading each other but not understanding.

"And believe me when I tell you..." Kamael continued, "I thank God every day that I only lost my arm. That man saved my life... the lives of his entire team. If it was up to me... he would have a Medal of Honor hanging around his neck."

Lailah shifted gently from heel to heel, lips thinning. "... No further questions at this time, Your Honor."

Nema saw the small break for what Michael intended it to be... and before he could open his mouth, she cut him off. "It's kind of not your business, Michael..."

His orange-clad shoulders lifted in a shrug. "If it's what's keeping him from showing up for my trial... isn't it my business, just a tiny bit?"

Her doe eyes hardened again. A knife-cut of a glare as she spat whispered words. "If he was that childish I'd be _disgusted_ with him."

"Then what's keeping him away from work?" He asked, as the next witness was called forward.

Nema frowned, the harshness of her stare softening into disappointment, looking at her lap. "I wish that I knew..."


	8. Shell Shock

**The War for Hell's Kitchen  
** _Shell Shock  
_ By: Brenli

"The bullet penetrated Mr. Castle's skull in the lower right quadrant, or more specifically, the sphenofrontal suture, which is the cranial suture between the sphenoid bone and the frontal bones, both here and here." The doctor indicated with a laser pointer, waving over two spots around the right temple of the x-ray of Michael's skull.

This had been something that, while very curious about, Nema hadn't been able to dig up much information on without drowning in the medical jargon. Much like how she knew she wouldn't be able to be a true-to-heart lawyer, she knew she wouldn't be able to enter a medical profession, either.

Setsuna waited until the doctor had finished speaking before addressing the court. "I believe what my expert witness is trying to convey is that my client, Michael Castle, was shot... point blank, execution style, in the head." He turned back toward the doctor. "Could you please describe the damage Mr. Castle sustained from the bullet?"

"It fragmented on impact, causing damage in both the right frontal lobe and the temporal lobe of his brain."

"What are the effects of such an injury?"

Nema had mixed feelings about how quiet Michael had become as soon as the next witness had been called to the stand. It was an escape... a break from the bizarre questions he suddenly had about Uriel, about herself.

But it was a quiet based on... distaste. She could think of no other word for it. He'd been open with his disapproval when she first brought the suggestion to him, grumbling that it felt an awful lot like hinting at the proverbial vet-gone-crazy. It had taken much snapping and a heavy glare that cut like a knife to get him to understand that being wounded wasn't insanity. That there was no insult in it toward anyone else, and not even toward him. It was the truth. It was what happened to him.

Yet it was clear that he didn't like listening to this. He stared at his cuffed hands and waited.

"Mr. Castle is suffering from what we call sympathetic storming."

His gaze shifted toward the doctor.

"It's a heightened and ongoing state of fight or flight, in which the sympathetic nervous system is hyperactive. As if he is reliving the incident of trauma over and over again. It can plunge a seemingly peaceful individual into mental and emotional chaos."

"Sure sounds a lot like PTSD." Michael's voice rumbled.

Nema's brown eyes turned toward him, and she shook her head, pale gold locks swaying. "That's not where we're going. Just... listen."

Michael shook his head, trigger finger reflexively pumping.

"Michael."

He froze and stared at her.

"Trust me." It was a whisper so low it sounded airy, like a summer breeze through gentle golden sunlight.

"Could you define it for the jury, please?" Setsuna asked with a gesture of his hand toward the jurors.

The doctor nodded. "Extreme emotional disturbance. It's twofold. First, the defendant is so emotionally disturbed that he loses control. And second, the defendant has a reasonable explanation for said disturbance, from his point of view."

"Are you aware that Michael Castle's wife and daughter were both murdered right in front of him when he sustained the brain injury in question? An injury which, you say, keeps him in a perpetual state of mental and emotional chaos?"

"I am, yes."

"With that in mind, would you say that Michael Castle's mental state satisfies the definition of 'extreme emotional disturbance'?"

"Objection!" Lailah Reyes stood, chair dragging across the floor. "Calls for a conclusion."

"Your Honor," Setsuna pleaded coolly – spending so much time forced to speak was enabling him to finally get the hang of it, though he screamed inside his head every second, "Dr. Lee is an expert on the brain. He is qualified to an opinion, and said opinion is not only relevant, but imperative to the case."

After only a brief pause, the judge spoke. "Overruled. Dr. Lee?"

Lailah's body stiffened as she sighed a quiet exhale through her nose and gently sat back down. Nema couldn't help it, couldn't fight the smile tugging on her lips. Maybe they didn't _need_ Uriel for this, after all.

"Personally," The doctor stated, "I do believe he is suffering from EED, yes."

Nema's smile grew, and she nudged Michael's arm with her elbow. Their eyes met, hers warm like chocolate melting in the sun, and his a blue-green ocean of quiet thoughts. He didn't object, but he was reserved. Thoughtful. Maybe she would need to speak with him after this hearing.

"And one who's suffering from extreme emotional disturbance," Setsuna went on, "Is it possible to willfully premeditate a crime?"

The doctor shook his head. "Any infractions would be considered crimes of passion."

"How many of your other patients witnessed their families being brutally murdered right in front of them? Other than Michael Castle?"

"He's the only one."

"So would you say the circumstances surrounding Michael's mental state is different than those of your other patients?"

"I would."

Setsuna had to draw it out, had to make it as concise and clearly put as possible, to give Lailah no edge on him. "And what exactly would that difference be, in simple terms?"

"Michael Castle's been through Hell."

Michael's gaze only broke with Nema's then, to stare at his hands and bite back the instinctual little wince. Well, shit. Simple terms indeed, doctor...

"Thank you." Setsuna said kindly.

And then it happened.

"You killed my Dad!"

Michael's head, Nema's, Setsuna's, Lailah's... everyone's heads whipped toward the teenage girl who suddenly stood and began screaming.

"I don't give a shit what you've been through! You killed him!"

"Order! Order in the court!" The judge slammed down her gavel.

"You killed my Dad! I saw him in his coffin with _holes_ in him...!"

"Please remove that young woman, now." The judge kept her cool while giving her instructions clearly, firmly.

"He was my _Dad...!_ " The girl broke down into sobs, "And now he's gone!"

Michael had looked the kid right in the eye, the entire time she cried and screamed out against him. Face tight and withdrawn, save for the gentle furrow of his brow. Nema had even broken eye contact with the girl before he did, turning to look at his bruised face. The hints of pain, the thoughtfulness. He didn't look away until the girl was gone, his gaze turning right down to his cuffed hands. Hands that had taken the life of a father.

Now she knew it was imperative that she speak with him after this hearing. His silence was loud and she needed to be sure she wasn't... she didn't know. Losing him, watching him revert back to being as broken as he was on the hospital bed. Yes, his actions did have consequences, but...

"I'm now instructing each and every one of you to disregard that outburst and to not let it influence your opinions on this case."

So the judge stated, but Nema saw Michael shake his head. Disregard... right.


	9. Dreamsicle

**The War for Hell's Kitchen  
** _Dreamsicle  
_ By: Brenli

Stepping into that room, this time... didn't involve Michael greeting her with his usual, "Miss."

No, circumstances had drowned that camaraderie away. It left him sitting there with his wrists inside of cuffs that bound him to the table. It left her standing with her folders cradled against her chest.

Saying nothing.

Staring at each other.

Again.

Nema wished that she understood what all the staring meant. Felt like they'd get a lot closer to... whatever... if they could accurately translate what their faces were trying to say. She blinked down at the toes of her patent leather heels as she tried to form actual words. It shouldn't have been this hard. His history aside, her history aside. She liked to think that for all her secrets and mysteries, she was easy to read if people tried. Nema felt guilty for wishing the same of him... Her lips parted-

"I did that."

Her brown eyes shifted back up to meet his. Was he aware of how his staring could make a person feel stripped to the bone? Maybe he was.

"Right?" Michael continued, as Nema sat across from him and set her folders down. "That kid, I took her father from her. I did that."

Nema smoothed out the plum fabric of her skirt. "Yeah, you did."

"Uh huh." Michael nodded, and he at once looked distant and entirely too present. Thinking to himself, but also trying to say things to her without saying them out loud.

She allowed herself to react the way that her gut told her to, and if she was wrong, then they would work through it, because if nothing else at least this man was always willing to tap back whenever she did. She didn't allow herself to think further than that. "Look, Michael, I can't judge you."

It was only in the extra stillness of his stare that Nema realized his trigger finger had been going, again. Yet it paused now... Michael clearly, mentally chewing on what she said.

Of course, he would have no idea... the extent of what her statement meant.

He took a breath, broke his gaze with her, and when he spoke it was soft enough to take just a bit of gravel out of his voice. "That was tough in there for you, right? It was... You know, it was, um... hard?" It had to have been. Poor Miss, fighting ferociously – for him of all people – and getting blindsided when she thought she was coming out ahead.

But more than that...

Being confronted with who exactly she was fighting for. So many times, Michael wasn't sure she understood. He was under no illusions that he was a shining knight. No, he wasn't like Red; he was blood soaked and that was just a part of the way things had to be. He hunted bad men... and in doing so, became a bad man, himself. Never had that been made more clearly than when faced by the daughter of a man he'd slaughtered... the worst part? He didn't even know which one had been that girl's father. There were too many faces to choose from, and most of them had been broken and swollen enough to be barely recognizable, in the first place.

Yet that was the price to pay for being the man that he was. Had Nema considered that at any point, before...? It didn't matter. The point was, she had to face it, now. Face it alongside him.

Nema sighed, brown eyes darting about like a frightened doe. "Yeah." It was more like a sigh than a real word, but she delivered it with a gaze that pierced. Cut like a knife.

And that was all she said, and Michael wished that he knew what that meant. What her eyes were saying. He wasn't... seeing the kinds of things he would have anticipated. She wasn't disgusted, or angry, or...

She sat up straighter in her seat, and he recognized it as her steeling herself. Getting her head sorted, immediately. "Okay. You gotta do something for me."

… Jesus Christ. She was still fighting for him. He knew that look anywhere; it was so much, too much like a soldier's determination. Once more into the fray, and all that shit. Why? Why would she...?

"I need you to take the stand."

Holy shit. Michael's reaction was immediate, pushing hard against it, scoffing at the idea. "Come on, for what? Why would I-"

"The jury has to know what happened to you, what... what you go through every single day. After this afternoon...?" Her eyes were cutting like knives. She may as well have been flaying him. "I don't think we have any other shot."

Shot being the operative word; it felt like she had a damn gun trained onto him. Pushing him where he couldn't even imagine himself going. She did it mercilessly, like bursting past red tape to shove a photo in his face. But this was. He didn't know. It was... "What?" His shoulders lifted in a dismissive shrug; trying hard to disarm her. "What do you think is gonna happen here?" Jesus, what _did_ she think was going to happen? Right? The whole damn thing, this... this courtroom war. He was gonna burn to ashes and pull down the guilty scar-faced bitch who hadn't lifted a finger to poke through all the guts and bullets to bring justice; he was gonna make her burn to death, too. That's what this was for, that's what this was for. "We're not gonna win this thing...!" Not the way that this brown-eyed girl clearly wanted.

"We can still reduce the charges." She insisted.

What the fuck, just... what the fuck? He wanted to snap at her. He wanted to start rumbling and grumbling and doing whatever it took to get her to abandon his difficult ass... but the best he could do was heave a sigh. He recognized it for the hopelessness that it was.

So did she, and it showed in the way she leaned forward, glare cutting like a knife, words for ammo and there was no way she could miss him from how close she sat. "Look, that might not be important to you, but it is important to me!"

But _why...?_

Her pale hand whipped toward the door with an accusing finger. He was surprised that the security personnel stationed there didn't immediately drop dead just from that, alone. Surprised the whole damn world didn't start bleeding from the judgment she made from a single gesture. "All of them, they all think that you're a monster." She pointed at herself; it felt like a threat. "But I know that you're not. You're not!"

Who was this brave damn woman, who believed in him so much...? He'd been asking himself that since the day she'd turned on her heel and charged at him, instead of running from him. It didn't make sense. He'd had the time to attempt to piece theories together; maybe he reminded her of someone she cared about, maybe she liked the idea of taming beasts, some twisted up form of Stockholm syndrome, fuck if he knew. It didn't make sense! "... You sure about that?" Because he couldn't figure out what made her so sure. She'd seen the evidence. She'd seen the corpses he'd left in his wake... "What if I find these men that did that to my family?" Just bringing it up had his trigger finger twitching again, itching to fire rounds into everyone who'd wronged him. "What if..." He had to stop, recalling x-rays of his damn skull, and the damn hole in it. Extreme Emotional Disturbance... "What if nothing changes?" The question was a whisper, but it took the same amount of effort as screaming to get it out. His eyes met hers, blue-green to brown. "What if this is just me, now?" As if there had ever been anything other.

But of course, there had been. He was a husband, once. He was a father. He'd had so much love inside of him... until it had been shot to death, and dead things don't come back.

Miss Nema Page listened to him as he leaked out little bits of honesty, chocolate-doe eyes cutting like a knife. Ruthless, kind of like how he was ruthless, but in a way that he couldn't figure out. Like she was patching up war wounds and immediately pulling him to his feet. "... Then don't you deserve to know that, too?"

She wasn't gentle, she didn't try to coddle him with assurances. She merely... faced the horrifying question at his side. "Brave damn woman..." he muttered out loud.

Her delicate brows gently bunched together in a furrow that only made her stare all the sharper.

"What about my head, hmm?" His trigger finger kept moving. "Extreme... Emotional Disturbance?"

The look on her face didn't change. "Is that why you're fighting me?"

Michael felt something lurch inside of him, some kind of protest. He wasn't... _fighting_ ; he didn't want to call it that, even if that was what it was. "How the fuck...?" He whispered under this breath. How did she do that? Cut him down as soon as he tried to loom above her, _easily_.

"We're on the same side..."

He knew. He knew. He knew.

"And EED? It doesn't make you a monster. I thought I made that clear when I first brought this up."

"Yeah, that I'm wounded." He growled lowly. "Not nuts, but I got a broken brain-"

"Wounds heal." She ground out before he could fire any more verbal shots at her. "Including yours."

There. She did it again. All of his attempts to disarm her, and she repeatedly disarmed him...

Nema took a breath, held his gaze with unflinching eyes, willing him to please, please, just listen to her. "Will things ever be the same? No. You're going to have scar tissue, but you're also going to be stronger for it. Because you are going to learn, Mr. Castle." The pale gold of her strands gently swayed with the shake of her head. "And I'm not going to pretend to know what that means for you. What your conclusions will be. But if you were insane, or otherwise beyond repair, then you wouldn't have control over this, and you _do_. You just have to learn, and fight. I didn't shine a light on this so you could use it as an excuse."

He scoffed, at first, but Nema saw through it. Saw it for the distraction it was meant to be, and the gentle softening of his bruised features let her know that he was aware he hadn't fooled her. Gaze met gaze, and she could only hope that she hadn't alienated him. That he wasn't going to throw up walls, block her out. Make like Uriel and tell her, 'I've said all I can.'

"... Anyone ever tell you that you're brutal, Miss?"

Was she supposed to feel as relieved as she did, right now? The smile flashed across her face before she could stop it. "Doesn't sound particularly flattering."

"Honesty ain't flattery." Michael listened to her laugh, watched her face light up like the sun. Eyes like chocolate melting in the warmth. "And... I respect what you're doing."

"It feels like there's a 'but' in there."

He shook his head. "No, Miss. I respect the fight in you... even if it confuses the shit out of me." He settled back in his chair a little more. "If this is the kinda brutality you dished out to the big guy then maybe that's why he's avoiding this place."

Suddenly, he was smiling, the fading bruises seeming to crinkle around his eyes. Suddenly, she wasn't smiling at all. "I'm really not that intimidating."

"Bullshit, Miss." Michael chuckled, albeit quietly. "You probably ripped out his heart and ate it."

"I wish; maybe he'd be more responsive." Wait. Why was she sharing this? Doe eyes darted to her folders, and she grabbed them like they were her lifeline. "Anyway-"

"Maybe fight harder, then, Miss Brutality."

Nema suddenly slapped her folders against her thighs. "I'm _not_ brutal!"

A great big crow of laughter suddenly burst out of his mouth, spreading from his chest like he'd been turned into a grenade. God _damn_ , this brown-eyed girl.

"I'm not...!" She insisted. "And even if I was, I'm not sure that it would matter! Fighting with Uriel is like fighting a mountain; there's no pushing and no pulling so you can't _get_ anywhere!"

How weird. Nema was so reactive, Michael had no idea how the big guy could _resist_ pushing and pulling. His laughter had ended but the remnants of it remained, like embers in his veins. "Sorry to hear it's been rough going, Miss."

Her fingers curled around the top of her folders, brown eyes meeting sincere blue-green ones. "... Anyway." God, she didn't know what else to say. Why did he _want_ to talk about this? It had no weight on his case, unless Uriel really was avoiding the trial because of their fight, now. But for however much she was angry with him, that didn't sound like Uriel. It didn't. Even if all of his recent behavior didn't sound like him... that stretched beyond reason. "I stand by what I said. You should really take the stand."

"Done."

"... No more objections?"

"Itching for a fight, Miss?"

"No." She said flatly, watching the hints of a smile flicker about the corners of his mouth. "I just want to be sure we're on the same page, here."

"We're swinging fists on the same side. I'll take the stand."

Nema gave him a smile that matched his own little wisp of one. "Thank you." She opened a folder, took the pen that had been tucked inside and began jotting words down... and staring at him.

Unnerving, because it wasn't eye to eye. No... she was raking her piercing gaze down his body. "... Miss?"

"... Any idea what your measurements are?"

Michael paused, gaped a little. "Are you trying to make me blush or something?"

Her chocolate-doe eyes shot wide, and it was her face that glowed bright red. "No...! I'm thinking that I should get you some nicer clothes."

A little snort of a scoff left him. "This ain't no fashion show."

"I never said that it was."

"Then what I'm wearing now is fine."

It was her turn to scoff, eyes cutting like a knife. "You want to argue your way out of prison while dressed like a prisoner?"

His nose scrunched in scrutiny. "I gotta be honest; I think we're fucked if the jury's that shallow."

"It's _subliminal._ It's human nature, like it or not. And if you go up there looking like a dreamsicle-"

"A what?"

She paused. His blue-green eyes were slightly squinted... some kind of amused shine in them. "... A dreamsicle?"

Michael blinked, ginger brow furrowing as he looked down at himself, the slight curl of a smile on his lips.

The folders slapped against her thighs in protest. "Oh my God, don't even try to tell me you haven't looked like an enormous dreamsicle ever since they put you in that thing!"

"Fuck's sake, that's not fair...! I don't get a choice in what they give me!"

"But now you do." She crossed her legs, brushed her hair behind her shoulder. "So if you know your measurements, you should give them to me."

"Come on, Miss. That's not necessary."

"Yes, it is."

"I could set a trend."

"Absolutely not. Traffic cone chic?" She grimaced.

"Traffic cone? Thought I was a dreamsicle. Apparently edible." He paused when he saw her face flare that much more red. Poor Miss, she couldn't hide anything. "Cannibalism is a terrible offense." Wow, what the fuck?

Nema blinked fast enough to make her lashes flutter, her doe eyes rolling in a great big circle. "We can bypass all of this if you agree to let me get you some nicer clothes."

… Bypassing this sounded good. "Yeah, well... I remember the numbers they jotted for me before the last tour I went on. Don't think much has changed, since."

She clicked the button at the top of her pen, cleared her throat, and nodded for him to continue.


	10. Guilty

**The War for Hell's Kitchen  
** _Guilty  
_ By: Brenli

Nema thought she might snap like piano wire wound too tightly to last.

There had to be a reason, though... It's not like that woman was the only one there. Some man. Also blind, but cutting up an apple.

So maybe... there was some reason, that she had been too irritated and impatient to wait for. Maybe one of them was the paying client? Which one, then? The man?

Or the beautiful woman with eyes so much darker than hers, they were just plain black. Dark-haired, mocha-skinned, the literal antithesis of herself. Was she the paying client? Why was she in his bed?

There had to be a reason.

Now wasn't the time to wonder.

"Fan club's here." Setsuna murmured to her, and she'd only barely heard it.

"Word must've gotten out about Michael testifying." She sighed, not able to figure out if this was going to help the case or not. It could go either way, and she didn't appreciate the uncertainty.

"Uriel better show."

Nema had to consciously keep herself from suddenly spitting curses against him. "If... if he doesn't, we'll survive." She took a breath, shifting from heel to heel. "Right?"

Setsuna didn't have time to answer, looking past her to suddenly lighten up. No matter how angry he was... it felt good to finally, _finally_ have Uriel present.

The moment Nema saw him, she moved to her seat, sat down, opened her folders. Picked up her pen. Did all that she could to have a reason to ignore the blind lawyer that had finally decided to do his job.

She heard him tap his way over to his own seat, close up his walking stick... and then he practically descended on her like she was prey. "Nema, I'm so sorry about-"

"Setsuna wants to walk through some things with you." She absolutely did _not_ want to have this conversation here. Not now. This wasn't the place. Michael needed them.

She felt the pause like the weight of a boulder sitting upon her shoulders, and when he fell back to speak with Setsuna, it was all she could do not to let out a loud sigh of relief. Or cry. Or storm out. But she had to keep it together, for Michael's sake. She'd come this far. She could get through this, too...

"Counsel, are we about ready?" The judge asked.

"One moment, Your Honor." As Setsuna and Uriel sat, Nema heard him quickly give him the overview of the plan. Walk Michael through his story. Connect the dots between the Colonel and the neurologist. Proving whether Michael's version of events was true, was _not_ necessary. They just had to convince the jury that _he_ believed it, and relived it every day.

From there, the personal convictions differed. Nema was well aware Setsuna wanted Michael put away in some mental institution, and while Nema thought he could benefit from working through the mental mess she knew he had, she didn't think an asylum was the way to go. But... if nothing else, that would have been better than being shoved into general pop, where she... she couldn't even imagine what that would have been like, for Michael. No matter how wild he was, how cruel. It was a game of numbers, and corruption, and keeping one eye open at all times.

An asylum would have been better than that. And... and maybe... a first step. Maybe they could work him out, from there...

She chose to avoid the fact that she very much doubted either Setsuna or Uriel wanted to help her with that.

"Counsel?" The judge queried again.

"Yes, Your Honor." Uriel stood, clearing his throat. "The Defense would like to call Michael Castle to the stand."

"Bailiff, bring in the defendant, please."

A great clamor began as soon as the double doors opened, and Nema turned her head to watch Michael as he entered, flanked on each side by an officer. She heard Uriel quietly ask Setsuna to tell him what was happening. Heard Setsuna comment on the suit he wore, how he looked better than Setsuna himself ever had, and he wasn't even wearing a tie.

Of course, Nema had gotten him a tie. A couple to choose from, but Michael had forgone either, leaving the top button undone. Perhaps, not a bad choice. Maybe a tie would have made him look like he was trying too hard... But for all her prior picking and gentle whining – and sort of teasing, she supposed, recalling the dreamsicle slip of the tongue – that wasn't what caught her eye.

He looked... preoccupied. Deep in thought, and maybe even... disturbed by something.

Nerves, probably? And she couldn't blame him for that... so when his blue-green eyes found her own, she smiled softly. Uriel's stoicism and Setsuna's nervous comments faded to inconsequential background noise. She was on his side. She was fighting for him...

Her smile was met with the hints of a frown.

Because how could he meet her hopefulness with hope of his own...? Knowing what he knew. Weighing what he was weighing.

For the first time since she'd burst into his life, past a line of red tape on the floor, he hesitated to hold her gaze. They'd done so for far too long; they said too many things with their eyes, even if it wasn't always as clear as they would have liked.

Michael couldn't have her reading him, now.

"Think about what you want, Michael." One of the officers who'd escorted him whispered, and it was all he could do to not begin yelling and beating his cuffed fists into the officer's face. His glare followed the officer every step of the way. Of course, he ended up standing not far from Nema. Of course, that meant seeing her face in the peripheral. He didn't even need to look head on to feel the hope flowing out of her... nervous, now, judging from her frown and the worried mutter she sent Setsuna's way. Fuck, for the first time ever he wished she couldn't read him.

No point in dancing around it, now. She read him, much too well.

"Do you solemnly swear that you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

Michael had to take a slow, quiet breath before speaking. "... Yeah." That was as good an answer as he could give. He wasn't sure if what he was about to do would count as telling the truth or not. Fuck, for all he knew it was both, in the convoluted way his life was.

"State your name for the record."

"Michael Castle." So far, so good... He couldn't help it; he glanced at Nema. Their eyes met.

There was no confusion, now. Nothing was lost in translation. Chocolate-doe eyes, gently furrowed brows, lips gently open. A question, a concern. An 'are you okay?'

Shit, was he ever 'okay' these days? But damn if she didn't make him remember. And smile. And laugh, fuck, outright, gut-busting laugh because she couldn't accept how brutal she was. Because she was brutal, she dug in with her damn hands and pried him apart. Punched him square in the face. Shoved him back into the fight...

She wasn't going to understand this.

He sat down. Looked at her again.

Why couldn't she just... not be here? Uriel was here, and if they were gonna stick to the pattern then maybe that meant she shouldn't be around. But, fuck...

It was a cowardly fucking thing to admit, but if she wasn't sitting there, he wasn't sure he'd be able to do this, in the first place. That's what made it all the worse. Was this going to make her... cry, two fat tears tumbling down her face like in the hospital? Would it make her livid? Either way, this was going to hurt her... But he had to. He had to...

Uriel stood, briefly groping for his cane. It felt downright alien to have him around... which said a lot about how shitty of a lawyer he'd been for this case. It was far, far too late, now, but if he had his way, he would've wanted Nema to be given the damn credit, here. She was the one who actually worked with him. Verbally shot back when he was giving attitude she likely didn't deserve. She was invested in his sorry ass; he felt terrible about it. Poor Miss...

"Mr. Castle," Uriel began, "You've been charged with multiple capital crimes. Been called a killer incapable of empathy or remorse."

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Get on with it. He couldn't help glancing at her. Again. Again. Again.

She was equal parts hopeful and worried and mentally pressing him to keep with the fight. The tangle of feelings colored her cheeks rosy red beneath melted chocolate doe's eyes, framed in pale sunlight hair. Her hair was only half pinned up into a twist... held together with pens. Because a secretary could never have too many pens.

Fuck.

"Hmm." Michael said with a nod. "Yeah... So I hear." Good, good. Good and honest.

"Michael." The tiniest space of a pause. "May I call you Michael?"

As if he gave a shit what this lawyer who couldn't be bothered to spend time on this case wanted to call him. There was something about him that he couldn't explain. Something about the way he spoke, the tones and all of that. "Yeah." Michael replied after a short, scrutinizing pause.

"Michael, we've heard a lot about neuro-chemistry... and psychology, and all things unfolding, scientifically and otherwise, inside your brain."

Yeah, he was a real spectacle for shrinks. It was getting damn hard to keep the comments to himself, already. He wasn't cut out for this type of warfare, for talking circles around people, it just wasn't for him. But it was what Nema wanted, so dammit, he had to try. Right?

"But I just have one question I want to ask."

Fucking finally.

"What happened that day?"

God...

"The day your family was so tragically killed."

He didn't give a shit that this lawyer was on his side or even that he was blind, he just wanted to hit him in the face. Everything about this felt ugly, cheap, turning memories into a sad, sad story for everyone in the room. At least with Miss Nema Page it had felt like sharing. At least she cared, enough to break into his house, enough to cry for his loss. Here it was just... cold statements transcribed to a document, and strangers who were supposed to weigh it heartlessly so they could judge him. This fucking circus. This fucking freak show that he got to be the star of.

Jesus Christ, had he even been up here for five minutes yet? He wasn't cut out for this, at all.

He looked over at Nema... How could she claim she wasn't brutal when she was staring at him with that begging look in her doe eyes? She was terrifying in a way no one gave credit for, which honestly only made her that much more dangerous. Woe for the man who was at her mercy. Woe for Uriel, even if he couldn't fucking see her.

The shift of darkness just behind Nema's head made him look up. The fucking officer, getting his attention, staring at him. He wanted to wring his neck for being such an obnoxious piece of shit.

He had to look away, had to breathe out his building anger. He needed to keep it together...

"It's okay, Michael." Uriel said gently, when the silence stretched on. "I understand, it's difficult."

"Do you?" He spoke right on the heels of Uriel's last sentence. The sarcasm laid heavy in his tone. "Do you understand?" Bullshit. He hated this. "'Cause I don't think you understand shit." He could do this without having to pander to people hungry for his tears.

He must have struck a nerve in the lawyer, whose jaw clenched, whose tongue wet his lips before fixing up his cane. "I'd like permission to treat the witness as hostile, Your Honor?"

Hostile, huh? Oh, he could give this long-haired no-show lawyer hostile.

"Granted." The judge acquiesced.

"All right, Michael. You don't want to tell us? I'll tell you."

Yeah? Would he?

"I'm gonna tell you _exactly_ what kind of man you are."

Michael's hands clenched into tight fists.

"You're the kind of man this city needs."

… Okay. His fists unclenched, but his trigger finger started up, nervous and curious.

"Because, ladies and gentlemen of the jury," Uriel continued coolly, "We all know this city needs help. Needs it _now_. Not tomorrow, not next week, not when the day comes, when the corruption that Lucifer Fisk left in his wake is flushed out for good, and the police force is finally back on its feet. We need it _now_."

… What... what the...? Michael wasn't going to disagree – shit, everything he'd done had been because he couldn't wait. Wouldn't wait for aid that would never come. If you wanted something done in Hell's Kitchen, you _had_ to do it yourself. Nothing else would do.

"Because this city's been sick. And the cops, they can't fix it alone. They need... _we_ all need men and women who are willing to take the fight, themselves."

As Uriel spoke, so strongly impassioned, Nema's lips became a delicate frown. This... wasn't the Uriel she had argued with. The rigid lawyer who staunchly stood by the system, insisted that nothing else would do. No, this flew in the face of the things that had driven the schism between them ever wider. Why was he saying this...?

"The kind of people who risk their lives so that we can walk safe at night in our own neighborhoods...! The ones our esteemed District Attorney here is trying so hard to destroy. New York _needs_ these people! We _need_... heroes." The crowds began cheering, the judge banged her gavel down, and Uriel had to catch his breath. Was this for Michael or was this for himself...? It felt like both. It also wasn't at all in keeping with the plan Setsuna had distantly murmured to him.

"Order...!" The judge yelled out louder, gavel banging... Setsuna's heart rate spiking, and Nema's breath leaving in a sigh of frustration, confusion... lots of things.

"The help they offer... and the hope that they provide..." He needed to get back on track, here... "Michael Castle wanted to help, but he took it too far. He shot people, he killed people." Uriel could sense Michael's own nerves – always running close to the surface to begin with, but nearly bursting from his skin now; he could hear it in quiet but staggered breathing and the sound of a finger nervously tapping. "It's against the law. And he broke that law many, many times."

Michael gave a moody sniff as he tried to piece where all of this was heading. It sounded like the kind of shit Red might say to him while trying to kick a gun out of his hand...

"Now, I don't like him any more than you do, but here's the thing. He's not a common criminal. He's not malicious in intent. Michael Castle is actually a good man, he just... He doesn't know the difference between right and wrong, anymore. And he doesn't need punishment for that...! He needs _help_. Our help."

Michael looked down at his cuffed hands. Not punishment, help. So, what? Send him to the nearest looney bin, and pump him full of pills to 'regulate' him, and talk about his feelings with shitty people who didn't honestly care about him? Fuck... for a shining moment, there, he thought this asshole lawyer was going to play in perfectly with what he intended to do...

"That's the kind of man Michael Castle is. And now, you have to decide what kind of jury you want to be. No further questions, Your Honor." And finishing required a sigh of an exhale.

"Your, uh... Your Honor? Can I say something?" The strain of Michael's voice felt quiet after the clarity of Uriel's own.

"You may." The judge allowed.

He let himself have another look at Nema. She seemed... dazed, and he supposed he couldn't blame her after the compelling and drawn out speech her lawyer boyfriend just delivered. Probably what she liked about the guy. Eloquent and shit... Yeah, women loved that, right? Why wouldn't this brown-eyed girl love that, too? But enough of that, now...

Time to do this.

"You know those, uh..." He paused. Just thinking about it made him scoff. "Those people? The ones I put down, the people I killed?"

Just one more glance at her. God, she was so full of hope that she shone like the sun. Brutal. She was ruthless...

"I want you to know that I'd do it all again."

He had officially taken the jump out of the fucking plane. No going back, now. The crowd made their astonished, stupid noises. Nema's eyes cut him like a knife, but not out of firm cruelty. No, they cut because they were like frightened doe's eyes viewed through his crosshairs.

"This is a circus, all right?" He growled out fiercely, taking the fall like a damn atomic bomb. "It's a charade; it's an act! It's _bullshit_ about how crazy I am!"

"Language." The judge attempted to warn him.

"I ain't crazy!" He yelled over her. "I'm not crazy! Okay? I know what I did." He glared about the room. He dared everyone to challenge him... but he couldn't look at her. Not that way. "I _know_ who I am. And I _do not_ need your help."

Something started in the back of his mind, EED, EED. But fuck it. Fuck EED, fuck the bullet that punched a hole through his temple. Fuck it! Nema, poor Miss, even she'd said it with eyes that cut like a knife – he was in control; it wasn't an excuse! "I'm smack-dab in the middle of my right God damn mind, and any scumbag, any, any lowlife, any maggot piece of _shit_ that I put down; I did it because I liked it!"

"Order!" The judge demanded over the cries of the courtroom; it felt like domesticated war zone buzzing chaos. He could ignore it.

"Hell, I _loved_ it!" He roared out like a lion in need of blood. Saw Nema jump, in his peripheral vision. Doe eyes in the crosshairs, but he couldn't will himself to look right down the scope at her. "I'm sittin' here, I'm...! I'm just _itching!_ "

That fucking officer was giving him some stupid smile that he attempted to dull to a smug twitch of the lips, and Michael wanted to send a bullet through his fucking teeth.

"I'm itching to do it again! And you think... What, you think you're gonna send me to a nuthouse? Some doctor; they're gonna get me to stop doing what I want to do? _Well that ain't happening!_ Not on my watch!" He stood, he bellowed, he did what he had to do, and he didn't look at her. None of this was in any way for her. He wished she'd stayed home... "You people, you call me the Punisher, ain't that right? The big, bad Punisher! Well _here I am!_ "

"Bailiff!" The judge called out. "Remove the witness!"

Good, good. Cart his ass out of here before Nema had to see any more of this. "You want it, you got it! I _am_ the Punisher! I'm right here!" He struggled against the bailiff, "You want it, I'll give it to you! And anybody who came here today to hear me whine, to hear me _beg?_ Well you can kiss my ass!"

It took three officers to drag him out, and as he passed his shitty fucking lawyer, his nervewracked partner... and her... he screamed it out. "I'm guilty, do you hear me?" He made the mistake of looking at her. Frightened doe, standing, asking him questions with her eyes. He couldn't answer her... He'd let her down, so, so hard. "Come on, Judge! I'm _guilty_ , you hear me?" Guilty of being a piece of shit person in a piece of shit world and fucking betraying the one person who still looked at him like he was human. "I'm guilty! I'm guilty! I'll kill every one of 'em! Every single one!"

He kept it up, all the way to his shitty cell with his uncomfortable cot and the water that never really ran warm enough.

"You were perfect." The officer with the smug fucking smile said softly, and was promptly elbowed in the mouth.

"He better have what I need or I swear to Christ, he's dead. I don't give a shit; he's _dead_."

The bloodied officer spat out a wad of blood before speaking. "It's all business. Why would he betray you?" He took off Michael's cuffs, locked him in.

All he could do was pace in the small space granted to him in the damn suit Miss Nema Page had been too generous in getting for him. He didn't deserve it. "Hey, hey...! _Hey!_ " He hit the bars. "I'm talking every part of his offer! I did my end! He better keep to his! Doesn't matter how many fucking bars you surround me in; I'll break out of all of 'em if any of you-"

"Mr. Castle," The officer said with a small sniff, letting the blood dry on his chin. "We're not animals, like you are. Not a single blonde hair on her bubbly head will be touched. Now contain yourself... he prefers not to hold discussions with people who lack composure."

People who lack composure... Michael spat in disgust and hit the bars, not caring that his flesh bruised and split against the metal.


	11. Loss and Goodbyes

**The War for Hell's Kitchen  
** _Loss and Goodbyes  
_ By: Brenli

"How the Hell did this happen?"

"That wasn't the Michael I met with yesterday." Nema insisted, though she wasn't sure who she was trying so hard to convince.

"Guys." The other two stopped in their tracks and immediately turned, so quiet, so wound up that Uriel paused before he continued. "I think somebody got to him."

"Convincing him of what?" Setsuna growled, more than fed up with this ruined trial he never even wanted to take on. "Yelling his way to multiple life sentences? You _provoked_ him!"

But not in the way he'd meant to... Uriel's hands clenched onto his walking stick as he stammered a weak and terrible lie, "I... I didn't..."

"I had it lined up for you! We could have done this! We could have gotten the charges reduced. All you had to do was get Michael to tell his story." Setsuna gestured wildly enough that Uriel could feel the air rushing past him. "Instead, you had to veer off into _vigilante land!_ "

"Setsuna, he wasn't cooperating!" That much was true, which was typical of Michael, if Uriel had any say in it.

Setsuna swallowed his anger into a chilly calm. "I'm glad we lost. You hear me? I'm glad." He turned, shouldering his bag as he began to descend the courthouse steps.

"Setsuna..." Nema's heels tapped after him.

"Nema, let him go." Uriel called out.

"I don't want to hear it." Her response was immediate, still tailing her disappointed friend.

But Uriel couldn't let her leave. He couldn't. Not after their arguing, not after her dropping in unannounced. "Nema, can I talk to you for five seconds, _please?_ " Even though he didn't know where to begin, where the line was in what he could say to her.

He heard her turn sharply on her heel, but before he could feel any kind of hope, she was screaming at him. Outright _screaming_ at him, even louder than the terrible argument in his loft. She'd been pushed too far... "I don't want to hear another _bullshit_ excuse, Uriel! Maybe you _are_ an alcoholic! Maybe you're in a fight club!"

"Nema-"

"Maybe you are sleeping with a whole _harem_ of women!"

"No, I-!"

"I don't _care!_ I don't care, Uriel! I'm _done!_ "

Could he have expected anything different? After the way he'd been treating her, after what she saw just yesterday? No. If anything, she'd been... an amazing pillar of patience. So many other women left their men for less.

He'd lost her.

Uriel could do little more than frown and tap his stick on the ground. It was just as well. He should have ended it himself, when he'd broken down, caved in, thrust himself between Zephyr's thighs. He should have ended it even earlier than that, instead of dragging this poor girl around.

"You're right." Nema's yelling had quieted into a hurt kind of coldness. "This city really needs heroes... but you're not one of them."

If he'd said anything in reply, Nema didn't hear it, her heels clacking on every concrete step, past the heavy press of newscasters and photographers and microphones and cameras, to the curb, hailing a cab. It wasn't until she had sat down and been asked, "Where to, Miss?" that Nema suddenly... cried. She held it in for too long, through blue-green conflicted glances, through wild yelling, through hurtful arguing in a loft and through finding an impossibly beautiful anti-Nema in the bed in that loft. Through lack of sleep and mental strain and building as ironclad of a case as she could and trying so hard to knock down a mountain of a man.

Through losing.

And every time the driver cautiously queried with a, "Miss? Miss?" it only opened the floodgates wider. She'd had to hiccup the first location that came to mind and hope to get the worst of this out of her by the time she reached it.

But though the quaking sobs ended and the tears ran dry, the overwhelming sense of failure remained, and with it the upset. The anger. All that effort, for nothing. It was typical in the way that recycled feelings of loss in the midst of struggle often were. It felt like she should have expected all of this to happen.

Yet she hadn't come as far as she had, through literal miles of bad memories and all of her other losses, to allow this to end her. She was nothing if not resilient, she was nothing if she could not endure. She was nothing if she could not continue fighting.

So she fought, immediately. As soon as the officers let her through to his cell – and it was only in the very furthest reaches of her brain that she realized this was the first time she had been around him without his wrists bound in handcuffs – she burst in verbally swinging. "Why?"

He was giving her the kind of cautiously confused and hyper-defensive looks he'd once had in the hospital, when she burst past red tape toward him. She recognized it as fear.

But it didn't matter. She slammed her folders against the bars, which only made the officers reach out and tug her away.

Nema had never seen fear drop away from a man's face so quickly in all her life. "Hey, you let her go! You fucking let her go!" He was hitting the bars, too, cursing their existence, wanting to break their arms even more badly than he already ached to.

As soon as she was released, she swatted her folders against the bars again. "What _happened,_ Michael?"

He didn't speak, couldn't pick out the words as they crowded in his throat, and he fought to swallow them down, reaching out with placating hands to get her to stop smashing her folders against the metal.

"We _had_ this! We had this! You ruined it!"

"Ruined what?" Saying that much felt like gashes on the inside of his cheeks. He hadn't anticipated her showing up to see him again. He didn't want her seeing him again. This had been hard enough all on its own; he didn't need red-rimmed chocolate-doe eyes cutting him like a damn knife...! "A chance to have my very own straitjacket?" He needed her gone. He needed her out. Even if the aggression just piled guilt on guilt on guilt. "Huh? Was that the big plan to _save_ my life, Miss?"

"It's better than where you're going now! Why did you give up?" She slapped her folders against the bars and this time, his fingers clung on hard to the papers.

"I didn't give up!" Michael's voice was a wild rumble, blue-green eyes searing and... and something.

She met that glare with all the piercing brown sharpness she could muster, daring him to hold eye contact, to go toe to toe, to fight her. "That's what it looks like to me!"

But that wasn't what was happening, that wasn't, that wasn't. Frustration made him shake his hold on her folders before releasing them, arms gesturing in a harsh, wide, open sweep. "Who _cares_ if that's what you think it looks like?"

" _You_ ought to!"

"Why?" He bellowed, because she was right, and because he did. Fuck.

"Because of these!" Again, those folders took a beating, smashed against unforgiving metal bars. "Because of _everything_ I've put in these folders!"

"I never asked you to do _shit_ for me!" And that was true. He'd never asked. No, she'd literally broken into his life and taken it upon herself and he... He ought to have done something about it, but. He hadn't. It had felt so good to have her fighting in his corner.

Her face was flaring red and hurt and angry. "Yeah, and where would it have put you if I hadn't, Michael? You were ready to just plead guilty and be locked away forever without trying, just, _trying_ to get some kind of justice-"

"Yeah, and a lot of good your effort did, huh?" That was cruel. That was mean. He was mad at himself, just for her sake.

But then, he knew the poor Miss well enough to know she could defend herself. She'd done that so many times, already, because of his shitty attitude. " _Because you gave up!_ "

He _hadn't...!_

"How exactly are you planning on getting justice from behind bars, Michael? You _can't!_ "

The aggressive agony of this made Michael rub his hands across his head, turning, releasing a wordless roar into the air. Why was she still _here?_

"And all of the fighting, all of the-" her throat stuck, "the hunting you've done, in the name of your family, it means _nothing_ now!"

" _I don't give a shit!_ " He whirled back and glared at her.

A huge mistake, because her responding, upset gaze cut him down the bone. " _Don't lie to me!_ I'm sick of being lied to; don't you ever lie to me!"

The piece didn't fit with all the other jagged ones she was lodging in his damn chest, but he was too desperate to get her away from himself. How was it that every time he opened his mouth, it just kept her around?

She began pacing back and forth along the line his bars made. "You're hiding something. That's the only thing that makes sense. You were so ready to do this fight; you wouldn't have deviated unless something happened..."

How did she, how, how could she read him that well in such a short time of knowing each other, in the incredibly limited ways available to them? Behind lines of tape, cuffed wrists, bars of a holding cell? She was brutal, she was terrifying. Michael couldn't even imagine how much more frightening it would have been if they'd met under normal circumstances... " _Nothing_ happened!" The guilt was heavier than anything killing a man would have made him feel. Lying to her mere moments after she'd just told him not to... "I'm just tired of playing these games!"

"This isn't a game!"

"Yes it is," Michael hissed to her, hands gripping the bars so hard that his skin turned white around the red scrapes. "All of it; crafting this story like I wouldn't kill anybody ever again-"

"You wouldn't!"

" _I would!_ " He bellowed. "All that shit I spat in court today? I meant it!"

"But they didn't need to know that!" She bellowed right back, and it threw him.

It didn't fit with this brown-eyed girl.

"All they needed to know was that _they_ were safe! That's it! God, Michael, how many times have we had to fight each other to make a story that was honest _and_ would help you? For nothing! Because you decided you _really_ had to let people know how much you loved hurting the men who hurt you!"

He felt his trigger finger going, again; he had to shake his head to try and calm the tic.

"I put so much into this; I fought _so hard_ for you!"

Michael felt the cry build up in his chest before he burst out like a grenade, " _I didn't ask you to!_ " He shoved himself away from the bars. "Why the fuck does it matter? Why the fuck do you care, huh Miss? I _shot_ at you-"

"I wasn't in danger; you told me so!"

He had. Fuck. He had. "Why are you here?" He sighed, gesturing helplessly, blue-green eyes sharp and aggravated. "Hmm? Why are you staying?"

… She didn't know. She didn't know. "I-I don't..."

Michael felt like he was burning to ash on the inside, and the exhaled sigh through his nose made his whole face warm. "You showed up by chance and fuckin'... saw my ass all beat to a pulp and slapped me around, tossed me back into battle, but I never asked you to. I never wanted you to. Why'd you show up and make my fight into your fight? It doesn't have to be."

Nema hugged the beaten folders against her chest, blinking fast enough to send her lashes fluttering. She'd cried enough in the cab; she didn't want to, here.

"You don't know me, Nema."

The first time he actually said her name, and it felt... like an undefinable rejection of some sort. She didn't know what to do about it but stand there and stare at him as he stared back at her.

"I know it sure doesn't look like it from what I did today. But I'm sorry I... defected, I guess. I have my reasons." He shouldn't have said that.

The gentle furrow of her delicate brow only further emphasized that. He shouldn't have said what he did. "What reasons?"

"Stop now, Miss."

"I have a right to know."

"That doesn't mean that I'm gonna tell you." But he also knew that telling her that would only fuel her. She was so... hungry, so full of fight. It was astounding. "Go on, now. This stopped being your battle when I botched this whole thing."

Her brown eyes were soft and sad as a doe's, but for all their softness, they cut deeper than any sharp glare could. "I know that you know me better than that."

And for all the tension, he smiled, because that's what she tended to make him do. "Yeah." But in admitting that, the smile faded. Fuck, he couldn't, this couldn't... "Please, Miss..."

She didn't say anything, and in doing so, didn't promise him anything. Whatever it was that could've been promised. It was something that hovered in their eyes, not easily translated. She didn't want to go.

And he didn't...

The officers had been tense ever since she'd charged at his holding cell, and it showed in the firm strain of one's voice while the other opened the door Nema had previously burst through. "Time's up. We have to clear him out, make room for the next psycho killer."

She turned so fast that her pale gold hair swung across her shoulders, like running from his bullets. "Let it go, Miss." Shit, it felt strange to say that, to speak of restraint.

But she listened. Her stance gently loosening, head beginning to hang low. "Goodbye, Michael." She didn't look at him.

That hurt more than he wanted to admit. "Nema...!" He shouldn't have done that. She was on her way out of his life, ties cut, her with her – idiotic, if Michael had any say in it – lawyer boyfriend, and him with his dead family.

She turned, fingers quickly swiping across her rosy-cheeked face as she gave him that chocolate doe-eyed look that, for all its gentleness, cut through to the marrow of his bones. Her sadness... her sadness was too brutal for him.

"Thank you." The faintest hints of a smile whispered about the corners of his mouth. "Thank you, for your service."

Nema responded in kind, faintly smiling, the humor too... too specific. She was one Hell of a fighter; she would have won if it wasn't for him...

She left. She lost; they lost. But now he was back to fighting alone...

That was safer. That was normal.


	12. Attack Dog

**The War for Hell's Kitchen  
** _Attack Dog  
_ By: Brenli

Michael couldn't shake the feeling that it was going to take a very long time to kind of... work the memory of Miss Nema Page from his brain. It wasn't good. Shedding the orange jumpsuit had him thinking about damn dreamsicles and the fact that if he ever got out, among the items he'd be receiving would be a neatly-tailored suit from her. The cuffs circling his wrists were something he'd worn around her at all times, save for just once, save for their goodbyes.

Shit. This was no way to be, coming into the next battle. He needed to be clear-headed, or else he was going to find himself shanked. Blood blooming bright across the fabric of his new jumpsuit – white as fucking snow. Great choice. He supposed the prison personnel liked it that way; gotta find some entertainment and humor somewhere, right?

"I got this one." The asshole officer who'd lead him down this path in the first place, the one with the weirdass look on his face that Michael wanted to just beat in – he'd call him Officer Smug, because it fucking fit – stepped toward him.

"On whose orders?" The officer who'd been jotting down his information replied.

"The warden's. You got a problem with that?"

Michael had to fight down the derisive snort of a scoff. If he had to guess, this guy hadn't been in a position of this kind of power, before. It was going to his head, for sure. Michael hoped his 'higher up' grew tired of it, soon.

"No one tells us anything down here." The jotting officer said placidly, which gave Michael too good of an idea as to how fucked his time here was going to be.

Officer Smug took him by his shoulders and pivoted him, and as Michael moved forward, he fantasized about breaking his nose.

Violent. But the right frame of mind for him to be in, as he was lead down a cell block. Inmates scurried up and rushed to the bars of their cells, orange suits and white ones.

"Hey, look at me, Michael! Look at me!"

"Look at me!"

"I'm gonna stick you! That's a promise!"

Yeah, well. That guy could try, anyway. Trash began getting tossed from the cells, some pelting him square against his cheek. Whatever. Not like he was here to make friends; not like he _wanted_ to be in the good graces of any of this slime, in the first place.

He was here for one reason, and one reason, only.

Another door buzzed open, and Officer Smug waved him on in... down a hallway, through another door – this one heavy and solid, leading out to the rec yard. The handcuffs clicked as his hands were freed from them, followed by his ankles.

Officer Smug pushed open the last door of bars. "Right through here."

His smug fucking smirk of a smile... Michael swallowed down the urge to hit him, exacerbated by his being uncuffed, but only because he had a much higher priority. He stepped on out; it was empty... save for one man, bench pressing a massive amount of weight.

The man he'd chosen to throw the trial for... he better have what he claimed to have or he'd never fucking forgive himself for hurting the poor Miss like he did -

Fuck. He had to get her out of his head.

Michael made the attempt to drown her out by counting the damn plates being bench pressed. 45-pound plates and ten in total... Shit. If this was a power play, he supposed bench pressing 450 pounds was about as good as it could get.

That said, nothing he'd ever really heard about the man pointed toward obvious displays of physical strength. Maybe time in the slammer had changed him?

Maybe time locked up had changed Lucifer Fisk?

He set the bar with all its ridiculous weight into the holder and sat up, dark hair in sharp contrast with the prison orange of his jumpsuit. At least he was breathing heavy from doing that kind of lift; at least he was human.

Lucifer turned, and despite sighing to even out his breath, his eyes were cold and sharp as steel. "I see you got my message."

Michael said nothing, only nodded and continued reading him. The same voice he remembered hearing on TV now and then, a voice that didn't sound like it was used often – or conversely, like it was used too much, in cutthroat yelling and it had yet to recover. Before his conviction, Michael had always assumed he just never spoke, ever. After, well. He'd taken the world by surprise; better to not toss out possibilities.

"The circumstances are unfortunate, but each loss brings opportunity." He sat with his back perfectly straight, yet he didn't seem uncomfortable. Used to that kind of rigidness. "I'm glad we have this chance to meet."

"Hmm." It was almost a scoffing sound. Each loss bringing opportunity... Yeah, he supposed so, but he wasn't sure how much of a loss it technically was, if the only reason it happened was because he'd deliberately taken the fall. Because of an offer he couldn't refuse, made by this man who spoke of unfortunate circumstances and loss like either of them could have had a say in how they met. How did Lucifer Fisk _want_ to meet? In a fancy restaurant with meals that cost $200 a plate or something? Because Michael wouldn't have enjoyed that, either. That would've been far beyond his element. "You have something you wanna say to me?" He wasn't here for chatting. He was here for what had been offered.

"I've been following your case..."

Yeah. Clearly.

Lucifer's hands rubbed absently against his arms, like having them exposed bothered him. "Well. As much as one could, in this cage. I want you to know... what happened to your family that day-"

"Don't you do that." Michael felt his trigger finger going, and he had to clench his hands into fists to make it stop. The blue-green glare burned against the chill of steel gray irises. "You don't talk about my family. You got that? Just don't do it." This wasn't what he was here for. If he wanted to talk about his family, he already _had_ someone, a brave damn woman who had stepped over red tape for him -

Fuck. No. No he didn't. In sabotaging his own trial, he'd cut her free.

"I consider it a tragedy." Lucifer supplied with the kind of gentle ease that only set him on edge that much more.

"That right?" Michael grumbled. "You can save your bullshit sympathy, 'cause I don't buy it."

Lucifer certainly didn't rise to his aggression, which was at once both interesting and unnerving. Where was the threshold of his patience? What would happen if he crossed it? "I understand why you'd think that."

Michael had no damn time for this, even if technically he had tons of time. Multiple life sentences worth of time. "Look, you got something to say to me or not?" If this was all for nothing, if this was some kind of trick, then God have mercy. He was going to just exterminate as much of this prison as possible until somebody finally killed him off.

"Yes." Lucifer rubbed his arms again. "I've crossed paths with your attorneys, before."

His attorneys meaning, the blind piece of shit who hadn't done much for him and the nervous one who miraculously managed to skirt around a full-blown panic attack. But Michael's gut reaction was to think of Nema first.

Maybe if he poured bleach all over his brain he'd manage to get her out of all the cracks and wrinkles.

"Needless to say, I'm not a... huge fan. Pushing you towards a sentence in a mental health facility, after everything you've been through, that would have been a travesty."

"As opposed to what?" Funny in a sick way, how while he wasn't entirely pleased with the plan that brown-eyed girl intended for him, his instinct was to defend that plan. "Would've been shitty as Hell but you don't know that I couldn't get sprung up out of there in record time."

"Was that the goal?"

Nema had never plainly told him so, yet he knew that had to have been. You don't fight a battle beside another person with so much intensity and not get to know how their brains tick. As if he needed to feel even more guilty. The poor doe-eyed Miss... "Doesn't matter; I obviously shot a bunch of holes through that plan. So you tell me – as opposed to what?"

"Closure."

Finally. _Finally_ getting somewhere. Hopefully.

"Since I've been incarcerated, I've developed an empathy towards those who suffer by the hand of the law."

Jesus Christ, was it going to take a couple of those life sentences for them to hash all this out? "I think I've heard enough of your bullshit, okay?" Michael snapped. "You said closure. What'd you mean?"

Lucifer stood, and while Michael could already tell he was a good deal taller than himself, he still tensed and grew hyper-alert. The expression on his face hadn't changed, save for a subtle relaxing of his features. The problem was, Michael couldn't tell what that meant. He'd seen enough soldiers go chilly-calm before unleashing cutthroat cruelty. Better to be prepared.

But when he spoke, it was merely to cut to the chase, as Michael had pushed for. "There's a man, here, in the big box. A prisoner." Lucifer closed the distance, taking his time. It didn't take long for him to loom over him. "He's been overheard... boasting about his involvement with several criminal factions. This man..." Lucifer nodded, and definitely noted how Michael's head just barely inclined along with his. "He most definitely had a hand in the massacre in the park."

Michael stared, eyes piercing, but the man before him was as impenetrable as cold steel. He should've been asking why. Why did this man want to feed him a connection? If Miss Nema Page was here that's what she would have been all about, and probably digging up piles and piles of paperwork on Lucifer Fisk's history to fill in every who what when where and why about it. Bless her great big heart. It was for that reason alone that he managed to exercise caution... even though he reminded himself for the hundredth time that he needed to get that inquisitive woman out of his head. She had no place there. Right? "... I want a name."

"He's in another cell block-"

"I didn't ask you that."

Lucifer spoke right over him. "-which he essentially owns," He moved off, hands locked behind his back, making him look downright regal. Well, as regal as a man in an orange jumpsuit could look. Michael followed him with wide strides to catch up, listening to him continue, "heavily guarded by guards and inmates alike."

Michael kept pacing, even when Lucifer had paused to stand, grumbling in impatience. "I don't give a shit; I want a _name!_ "

"Dutton." Lucifer finally supplied him with the information he'd thrown his trial to obtain. "He's not Irish. He's not Cartel. He's not a biker." Michael turned to look at him, and he sat back down with confident ease. "He's something else entirely. I believe that he facilitated the deal between the three groups that you've been targeting."

Fine, fine. Dutton, then. And it would take a lot of fighting to get to him. That was fine, too. Michael could handle that... but now, on to the next part. "What's in it for you?" Because there had to be something in it for Lucifer. He couldn't figure out what, exactly. But there was no other way Lucifer would really go through the trouble of asking him to meet him, gambling on an offer – and a threat, which he certainly hadn't forgotten.

Lucifer paused, but it was only briefly, eyes focusing on what seemed like the mottled whites of the wall behind him before speaking. "He controls much of this prison, which has made my life here... difficult."

Michael's eyes narrowed. "So why haven't you done it yourself?" Honestly... had he not seen his own reflection before? He was clearly able. He could bench press 450, for fuck's sake!

"Because, Mr. Castle, unlike most of the population here, my plan is to keep my head down, so I can get out in the foreseeable future...!" Something must have struck the man, because his voice finally rose above the strained quietness. An urgency, and it was ferocious.

Yeah... Michael had a feeling there was something hiding under all that steel. He heard the creak of metal, and turned his head to see three more prisoners filter in, clad in orange, giving him tough guy looks that made him snort and jerk his head in their direction. "They with you?"

"Something like that." Lucifer quickly and efficiently contained himself.

"That right?" He turned, allowing himself to chuckle. Shit, look at those goons, trying to mean-mug him to death...! They could do their worst; it didn't hold a candle to the kind of cutting-knife glares given to him by a brown-eyed girl. "Well... I don't help shitbag, has-been mob bosses."

"Has-been?" Lucifer asked quietly.

"You heard what I said." He glared fiercely at the three prison goons. One of them was so theatrical it hurt, his upper lip curling into a sneer. He half-expected to see the flash of a gold tooth or something.

Lucifer stood again, and one of the three goons – the one who seemed out of place, bespectacled and less willing to throw up fists – came closer, as their leader moved over to face Michael. "I'm simply proposing an arrangement."

"I don't do arrangements."

"You should rethink that... considering the amount of enemies you have in here."

As if Michael gave a shit that he was the prison's most-hated man; if he cared then he wouldn't have _put_ himself in this criminal playpen! "I'm not gonna be your God damn trigger man! I'm not doing it!"

But Lucifer persisted, arms crossed behind his back. "I'm offering you the opportunity to confront the man implicated in the deaths of your family. Yes," He nodded, "I benefit from your actions. But the tide raises all ships, Mr. Castle. If, for some reason, my involvement diminishes your passion for answers," He stepped closer still, and it made Michael's fists automatically clench, "for revenge... well, that's your choice. But the war you waged on New York City... it got you nowhere. I'm offering you something no one else could." He paused.

Michael said nothing.

"If you don't want my help, fine. By all means... enjoy prison."

Lucifer turned away, and all Michael could think was that he wished he had a gun. He should have figured as much. He'd _known_ there was some ulterior motive in this offer Lucifer had sent his way, and he should have known that it would be something like this. Did he want to kill Dutton? Hell yeah. Did he want to be Lucifer Fisk's personal attack dog?

No.

Especially when he was all too aware of the other piece of leverage Lucifer had on him. No, this could too easily turn into a situation where he was stuck at the other end of Lucifer's fucking leash. His fucking fighting dog, indefinitely. But how the Hell had Lucifer discovered that bit of leverage in the _first_ place?

Michael's mind started digging for a way out, fast. "How would it work?" He grumbled moodily.

As soon as Lucifer noted the chance to gain the upper hand, he grabbed on tight, stopping his parting strides to turn around and face him, again. He stared, cold cutting steel, before speaking. "My resources here are limited, but I can assure you safe passage to cell block A, which is run by Dutton and his men."

The goon with the glasses spoke up behind Lucifer's shoulder. "The guards have a shift change at 1500 hours. Dutton's men will be in their cells. We can get you to him. We have one guard on our side, but you'll only have a seven-minute window to reach Dutton, get your answers, and get out."

"I assume that gives you enough time." Lucifer added.

Seven minutes? Yeah. He could probably get a cup of water in that time, too. And figure out how to rectify this fucking mess he'd gotten himself into... "When?"

"Does that mean you'll do it?"

"When?" He wasn't giving an answer until he had all the information he needed.

"Today."

Holy shit. "Probably wanna rethink that."

Lucifer eyes blinked just once, deceptively casual. "You believe so?"

"I've been in here 15 minutes and everyone's looking at me like I'm fresh fucking meat."

"I assumed that would mean you have all the more reason to act quickly."

It was Michael's turn to blink. "People are watching me. I don't care how many people you got in your pocket; you're not gonna be able to sneak me anywhere. Just not feasible." Things that he would have figured Lucifer would know, but then again... he supposed higher-level criminals usually had their henchmen to figure all this stuff out. Being disconnected from his must have been driving Lucifer nuts; no wonder he wanted an attack dog with a background like his own.

Lucifer's chin tilted upward ever so slightly. "You suggest we wait until the prisoners are less excited about your being here."

Not likely to happen very soon, but. "Yeah."

"I am not a patient man."

Michael scoffed. "I'm not, either; but I'm telling you this is how this shit works. Today's not happening."

Lucifer paused for only a fraction of a second before he began pressing. "But the future is happening."

His gut twisted into knots. "I'm not giving you a decision until you explain something to me."

"Done." He replied with an unusual quickness.

"Her."

"The attorney's secretary."

He wanted to wish that Nema would be someone easily forgotten in Lucifer's mind, but he got the feeling Lucifer never forgot anything. "Why'd you single her out? She's just the fucking secretary. She didn't actually do anything." A lie. "She's not worth shit." Another lie. "I could understand you passing threats to my actual legal team, but your move feels pretty left field, just saying."

Lucifer nodded, thoughtfully chewing on Michael's words. "Frankly, Mr. Castle, that's not how it seemed."

Michael's trigger finger started going, again. "Yeah? You think so?"

"I have the newspapers they started putting out once you were placed under arrest. You're welcome to look at them, if you'd like." As blue-green eyes squinted in aggravated confusion, he continued, "Body posture and facial expressions convey a great deal. I am very familiar with the kinds of... loyalties associated with such things."

"You're wrong."

"And yet here you are, so how wrong am I, exactly?"

Holy. Shit. Michael wanted to slaughter this man. "Let me make some things clear; that threat wasn't warranted. I was enticed plenty just from you promising another man crossed off of my list."

"But with you on the edge of escaping prison, promising simply that wasn't enough. I had to make assurances that you could not be... dissuaded."

"By threatening the secretary." He forced himself to sound bored. "Who I feel no so-called loyalty toward."

Lucifer's smile was faded and subtle. "Bruises can't hide everything. Especially in the courtroom photos they released mere hours after your verdict."

"I gotta say this feels pretty fucking childish for a grown man." Michael growled.

"Denial is probably worse." He replied simply. "Those who claim that such softness is a weakness have never felt its strength. There is honor and privilege in developing care."

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. "There is _no_ caring there! What the fuck is this schoolyard bullshit? Maybe I just don't like assholes threatening to hurt innocent parties, you figure that? She's got nothing to do with me and I made sure it _stays_ that way!"

"You're offended."

"Yeah, I'm _very_ fucking offended!" Michael yelled, making Lucifer's goons shuffle a bit. "'Never felt its strength'? Where the fuck do you get off when you claim that you know my whole fucking story and are using it for your own shitty purposes? Huh? Never felt its strength! Fuck you, man! You wanna imply hearts and flowers; well all of mine got gunned down! There ain't no room left in me for shit!"

Lucifer stood there as Michael seethed. Unreadable, but then Michael wasn't much in the mood for people-reading, anymore. "Of course, you still mourn."

Michael snapped, "Cut the shit. I explained the situation with the secretary." Not that there was a situation, in the first place. Well. Not the kind Lucifer Fisk had drummed up for some fucked reason. "So can we consider the threat you placed on her head over?"

"You haven't agreed to take on my offer."

Fuck. How twisted was this guy, to talk of the strength of so-called 'softness' like it was something dear to him, and then immediately wield it as a weapon?

Wait.

… Oh fuck he'd worry about technical accuracy later; he simply didn't have the time for this. "You're a real piece of shit, Fisk."

A silent chuckle lifted Lucifer's shoulders. "Can I count on your cooperation, Mr. Castle?"

Michael's trigger finger would have shot an unimaginable number of rounds by now. He had to consciously clench his fists to stop it. "... After this, you and me, we're done."

"Yes, we're done." Lucifer said simply.

The bespectacled goon stepped forward, suddenly, offering something concealed in his grip. The moment he took it, his ginger-red brows lifted slightly. A crude excuse for a knife?

"The shiv is the best I can offer." Lucifer spoke. "Something tells me you'll made do."

It felt like it was supposed to be a joke, but Michael was too pissed to even scoff. The best he'd bought himself was time... but how much, he couldn't be certain.

Lucifer was still dangling the threat of Nema over his head.


	13. Doe

**The War for Hell's Kitchen  
** _Doe  
_ By: Brenli

He'd lived through this so many times since the day it had actually happened. Central Park. Carousel. His baby girl screaming. Wife, him, running for their child. Bal getting blasted fucking backward. Bullets. Bullets. Bullets.

By the time he caught Jenebel in his arms, she was long gone. He couldn't even kiss her face; there was no face to kiss.

He'd lived through this, dreamed through this, enough times that the gore of it no longer sent him into shock, but the hurt wasn't any less. It just meant that he suffered while he was looking at everything and everyone.

Irish.

Cartel.

Bikers.

At the time it happened, he'd been too set on being a father and a husband, and not a soldier, so he hadn't been able to pick out the exact peculiarities of the massacre. Only that it was monstrous. It was war visiting the place where he was meant to seek peace. After all this time of reliving it, he was in the process of reanalyzing like a soldier should.

He would never not be a soldier, ever again.

Irish. Cartel. Bikers. Set at different points around the God forsaken carousel. Bullet trajectories, impossible to escape. A set up, or an accidental meeting of too many enemies. What for?

He cradled his dead daughter on his knees, heard the heavy thud of Bal's body hitting the grass, lifeless. Tears streaked down his face. It had to have been drugs. Yells in Irish lilting, in Spanish, in gravelly whiskey rumbles. Jenny's body was twitching the kind of twitch dead bodies full of adrenaline often did. The sob was broken in his throat. What kind of drugs would lead to something of this magnitude?

Was he really so unlucky, to be caught in the middle of a drug deal that went so far south, between so many groups?

A man was approaching him, in a khaki trench coat. He hung his head and waited for the shot to jolt him awake.

A deer's head entered his field of vision, leaning toward the terrible red hole that was his daughter's face.

New.

Not welcome.

Wild instinct made him flinch and pull Jenny's body away, which made the deer, a doe, respond in kind. Her eyes were big and dark and innocent and cut like a knife, and her ears tilted every which way before she took off, running all about the grass and guns.

The cruel scene had slowed to a complete pause, as the dreams had gradually become, the more he dug through the pain to piece everything together. Everything but... this strange new addition, the doe darting along and circling men who dropped to the ground when she was finished.

He watched, bewildered, trying to figure out why there was suddenly a fucking doe in his regular nightmare. Not asked for, bursting in, and singling out the men who'd destroyed his family, one by one...

The doe darted out of his line of vision, and he briefly looked at the work the doe had done. Some men were still standing, yet he recognized the faces of the men who'd dropped – not all of their names, but definitely all of their faces; men he'd gunned down in close range. He'd been too busy staring at the doe, but now he noted the word 'guilty' somehow scrawled across each forehead in black ink. He recognized the handwriting.

Heavy metal clicking and clanking jolted Michael awake, and this time the difference in the dream had him sitting straight up, blue-green eyes wide with... with something. Why had it changed?

The door to his cell groaned open, and it was Lucifer's bespectacled goon – he'd taken to mentally referring to him as Glasses Goon – stepped inside. "It's time."

"For?" He asked flatly, just like he had each day, for the past several days.

"We'll have to see." Glasses Goon responded, just like usual.

So began the daily ritual of taking on Glasses Goon's laundry delivery, taking linens and towels and tossing them into prison cells. The first day, he'd been advised to carry the shiv on his person, which honestly offended him. As if he'd walk around unarmed, being the giant walking 'kill me' target that he was?

Of course, he kept himself armed, though as of yet he hadn't had to take it out and use it. That wasn't to say there hadn't been immediate attempts to harm him – the first day had been met with aggression from every cell, taking clean cloth and throwing it back at him, screaming at him to come closer so they could strangle him.

It wasn't in his nature to ignore threats, but he did it for the long game.

Sure enough, meeting with Lucifer at meal time, the steel-cold man acknowledged Michael's claims. Agreed that they would need to wait, lest the people in his pocket got caught in the middle and he lost more than he cared to lose. Which said a lot about Michael's true value, in Lucifer's eyes, but whatever.

It took several days, but it seemed things were finally settling. Sort of. Linens weren't getting lobbed back at him, and the screams had dulled to moody grumbling.

Soon.

The realization of it set a tight frown across his face. The sooner the day finally came, the closer he'd get to the answers he was seeking... but then what? Logic dictated that he'd need to escape, somehow. Was this something Lucifer Fisk intended on helping him with? Or would he try to keep him around for longer, his personal attack dog?

God knows he had the power to demand it, dangling threats for Miss Nema Page over his ginger-red head. He'd tried so damn hard to get the man to believe that Nema was inconsequential to him.

Because she was, right?

But it hadn't worked. When sitting in his cell had him feeling bitter, he tried insisting to himself that she was but a spark in the darkness of his journey, his blood hunt... yet that felt too much like aiming at her doe-eyed face, point blank.

She was, aside from the need to be less of a prison sensation, what kept him from pushing forward in the plan to get to Dutton. Because he had no intention of helping Lucifer afterward, and making that known could very well be like tossing the poor Miss into the line of fire.

There had to be a way to go through all of this and come out on top. There had to be a way to slip out of the hold Lucifer had on him. There _had_ to be.

He needed more time.

Michael suddenly tossed a towel through the bars of a cell with unnecessary force, hitting the inmate square in the face.

"You ugly motherfucker!"

Michael scoffed and made ready to move onward.

"Hey! Pick up my shit, asshole! Hand it to me proper!"

He ignored him.

"He's lookin' to get stuck!" One of the inmates in the next cell over yelled out.

The aggression spread from cell to cell, and by the end of it, Glasses Goon was frowning in dismay. "Why did you do that?"

"Do what?" Michael grumbled, pushing the now-empty cart at him.

"Rile them up...! Why? Lucifer won't be pleased!"

"I didn't do nothin'. Hit a guy in the face with his towel. It was an accident." And he was prepared to say that to Lucifer's face, too, but for now he was back to entering his cell.

Glasses Goon looked at him incredulously as the door of bars closed. "Do your best to avoid any further accidents, or you might get killed by one of these men before you have a chance to get to Dutton."

Michael crashed back onto his uncomfortable damn cot. "Don't do that. Don't act like you care about what I fucking want!"

"I don't." Glasses Goon was pretty brave, though Michael suspected that had a lot to do with the door being locked. "But I thought getting to Dutton was a mutual goal between you and Lucifer."

"It is." He hissed.

"You're not acting like it is."

He didn't need to be told; that only contributed to the incessant caged-up feeling which wore his patience down to paper-thin. Michael allowed the sharp glare to serve as a goodbye for Glasses Goon, knowing he'd be back at this again, tomorrow. Lucifer sure was persistent. The man wanted what he wanted, and was relentless.

Michael had to find a way to break away from the leash he was on. How? _How...?_ Thoughts weren't helping him, and he knew he couldn't count on dreams. They were all the same... except this last one.

What the fuck was with that doe...?


	14. Niche

**The War for Hell's Kitchen  
** _Niche  
_ By: Brenli

What was she doing here...?

Nema shrugged her peacoat tighter around herself as she moved about the bustling office. Journalists hunched over keyboards, phones ringing, books and papers everywhere. It was chaotic... but it was an organized chaos, one she slipped through like a fish navigates a river current.

But all the same... No. No, she ought to get out of here. She could come back later, when she wasn't as tired and... and high-strung.

No sooner than she'd turned on her shiny, patent leather heel did she hear the voice of the woman she'd been working with, on top of all the work on the case.

"Nema Page...!"

She turned to see her, Nyssa Ellison, holding her own folders full of files and readjusting her dark-framed glasses on her nose. Several waving strands of pale hair fell out of the twist she attempted to secure with a hair clip.

"You guys had a Hell of a day in court a week back, huh? Front row seats to the trial of the decade." Nyssa smiled, fingers drumming along her papers. "Did you bring me a T-shirt? I've been waiting."

Nema managed a chuckle... 'manage' being the operative word. "No. Uh..." She tapped at her folders. "I might have something better."

A bitterness had grown inside of Nema, since the day they'd lost the trial, since she'd told Uriel she was done. Since she'd said goodbye to Michael... A bitterness that said there was no point to continuing these meet-ups with Nyssa. There was nothing to achieve, anymore; she'd lost. She was the ultimate loser.

But Nema had nothing else. Michael was gone and now it felt like a real waiting game – waiting for the reports of him being killed in prison. Nelson & Murdock? On hiatus at the very best, but with Setsuna very sure that it was over. So now she was unemployed, too... With her two friends at odds with each other, and her at odds with one, herself.

She just... she had nothing. For a good two days she struggled with the feeling of that nothingness. It reminded her too much of her time running all the way to New York. So... faceless. So transient. Purposeless.

Two days in and she was digging through all of her files on Michael, again. A few more days later, and here she was, dropping in on Nyssa. She couldn't explain her guilt, because it wasn't as if Nyssa disliked her company. At first, sure. Nyssa had a paper to run and her persistence got on her nerves pretty quick... but over the course of Michael's trial, Nema knew she needed to rely on more than the justice system if she was going to increase Michael's chances for freedom, for answers, for all that he deserved.

It was pretty crooked of her, she was sure. But yeah, she took the same files she used for Michael's case and shared them with Nyssa, too. The resulting articles had boosted newspaper sales by at least double, and Nyssa wasn't one to bite the hand suddenly feeding her.

And here she was again.

"These are from the NYPD files from Michael's family's autopsy report."

"You're on a first-name basis with him, now?"

Nema paused, felt her brain scramble wildly. "... These are the files."

Nyssa kicked off her heels in the back room they'd shut themselves within, too familiar with these information dumps taking a bit of time. "Mmm-hmm."

"So... so here, you can see here-"

"The body..." Nyssa's perfectly manicured nail twirled a ring around areas of the photo Nema showed her. "And here, the body's gone. Is this some sort of test?"

She might have warmed up to the former secretary, but that didn't change her need for people to get to the point, quickly. Her time was precious. Nema sighed, "Well, I... I think this is the John Doe the medical examiner said he covered up."

"Said when?" Nyssa shifted in interest.

"During the trial."

She knew where the other woman was hoping Nyssa would take this. "Dobiel Tepper's testimony wasn't public." And therefore, nothing that she could use in an article.

Nema's mouth dropped open. "Oh my God... Sorry." She pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration. "They cleared the courtroom. I was one of a handful of people who heard it..."

Another newspaper editor in chief might have tried to get Nema to come forward as a credible source... but Nyssa played the long game, and Nema was too valuable to immediately cough up. No matter; she was shrewd. "Okay, so... we identify John Doe, and then we find out why he was important enough to hide. These photos are from the autopsy report and it's already clear that the Bulletin has access to that via all our earlier articles."

But Nema knew what 'we' meant. "Um... Actually, I think that... I think you should do this."

Nyssa didn't say anything, just gave her a scrutinizing green gaze through the lenses of her glasses.

"Trial's over." She reasoned.

Nyssa shrugged. "So?"

She couldn't blame the reaction, she really couldn't. That was why she'd nearly chickened out, nearly fled just earlier. "So..." Her brown eyes stared at the toes of her heels. "So, Michael is in prison." Her throat felt dry and tight, causing her to pause and swallow. "Everyone's retreated to their corners, including my bosses... one of whom has repeatedly told me to let it go and move on." And despite the loss, she couldn't. She kept trying, but...

"And do you want to move on?"

"Case is closed." She said it in a whisper... defeated. Hurting, even... "Michael tanked his case; he got put away. I just... I think you should carry the torch on this."

"Yeah?"

It always unnerved her when Nyssa got this way. "Yeah..."

"Okay, so..." Nyssa spoke on a soft, tired sigh, crossing her arms. "I just want to rewind this informal meeting we're having by about 30 seconds."

Nema blinked. "... What?"

Nyssa ignored her. "You come to me with a lead. With a really good lead, right? And now you just wanna take off? Right?"

Yes. She did. No. She didn't.

"I mean, it's sort of like a pitcher going to the 8th inning with a no-hit shutout, and just walking away."

Nema pulled the pen keeping her bun in place out, her pale gold strands tumbling like the frustration busting out of her. "Look, this was supposed to be about saving my law firm," Was it? "and I didn't-"

"I get that." Nyssa agreed simply. "At first, yeah. But I have to tell you..."

Nema sighed and nervously twisted her pen.

"In the last week? I've gotten about ten phone calls from people wanting to know where I'm getting my information."

She froze, meeting Nyssa's gaze. "... Really?"

"Mmm-hmm."

That was... As big as the trial had been, Nema would have thought interest would have plummeted by now. Michael's trial was only interesting because of his claiming innocence in the face of notoriety. Him dumping all of that in the trash made him predictable... Even if Nema knew there was something specific going on. She didn't know what, but that much was clear. He'd trashed his own trial for a reason. "... What did you tell them?"

A corner of Nyssa's mouth lifted. "What do you think I told them? I took all the credit."

Of course she did, but then again there wasn't any other course of action, with the way things currently were.

"But the point is... when my phone starts ringing like that? That means that you're shaking the right trees. So yeah, sure. The case is closed. Michael Castle's in prison... but this thing isn't over. Not yet. Not by a long shot. You know it."

For the first time in about a week, Nema began to feel a rising from within herself. Nyssa was wearing one of her rare smiles, and it... was encouraging.

"You know it, because you know you're on to something."

And, God... Nyssa was right. In the face of all the defeat radiating off of everyone else around her, it was easy to get confused. To become uncertain. She was so, so glad Nyssa had caught her before she could leave. "Yeah..." Nema said, and it bolstered her. She nodded. "Yeah. Okay."

"Okay." Nyssa nodded with her. "All right, so... I pull some strings, we find out the last known address of Dobiel Tepper. Maybe he'll be more willing to have a conversation outside of the courtroom, away from the icy death gaze of Michael Castle."

Nema felt her lips suddenly lift into a smile, and heard the chortle leave her.

"What?"

"Nothing, just..." She cleared her throat. "I wouldn't really call his gaze icy. That's all. It kind of feels like the opposite."

Nyssa's deadpan face gave a blink before continuing. "... Anyway, we'll get him to talk to us."

"Us meaning us, or us meaning...?"

"Us meaning _us_. Don't get cocky; you're not that good, yet." She moved past Nema after handing her the photos and putting her heels back on, slipping out of the back room. "You've got a long way to go."

Wait...

Nema's heels tacked along after Nyssa's as they weaved their way through the desks and people and ringing telephones. "When are you free?"

Considering that Nelson & Murdock was done? "Uh, I um... I have kind of indefinite freedom?"

"Wonderful!"

Okay?

"Let's meet with Tepper tonight, then. I'll be getting on tracking his address right away; it shouldn't take too long."

Nema moved faster and nearly bumped into a journalist too busy to acknowledge the near wipe-out. "Nyssa-"

"I'll bring a little audio recorder, but I want you to do most of the talking. See what things you might need a little help on."

"Nyssa!" She finally grabbed onto the bustling woman's elbow, only just now realizing who's office... or former office... they were now standing outside of. "... Are you treating this like a job shadow?"

The editor in chief's smile was scheming. "You've got a good lead that needs your attention. But I can tell by that look in your eye when you showed up today... you're not gonna get any rest until you figure it out. So..." She reached out, turned the knob...

Opened the door to Isobelle Urich's office, before her passing.

"If you wanna camp out in here, it's all yours."

Nema stared into the shadowy office. Even with the lights turned off, she could tell that so many things had been left as Isobelle had left it – like a memorial, and it made her hesitate. "... Are you serious?"

"I'm very serious."

She stepped forward and reached in to turn on the lights... yes. Just as Isobelle had left it, down to the assortment of pens in the coffee mug and the notes pinned to the cork board. Memories flooded her of conversations, about life, about Lucifer Fisk, about Fisk's mother. All held in this office...

That was when she spotted it. Folders, with a yellow post-it note on top... bearing her name.

Doe eyes darted up to Nyssa, who still lingered in the doorway. She set down her folders on Michael to pick up the folders on herself, and found her fingers shaking. She flipped the top one open...

"Isobelle was the best researcher I've ever known." Nyssa said soberly.

"I remember..." She murmured behind her hand, staring at the contents. The bold font of one of the articles hit her head on – 'Mystery Accident Causes Teen Fatality.' But she couldn't bear to read the article itself. There wasn't any point in it. She'd been there...

She flipped through clippings and print outs and so many things, enough files to rival Michael's. Less bloody but no less terrible in its own way, in ways she couldn't drum up the courage to articulate. Secrets. A Vermont house in the mountains, hiding something deep below. Chemicals. Black suits. Protecting her childhood bedroom by forcing people to buy rocks from her before they could enter. Her father. Her brother.

Her brother...

The car accident...

She couldn't let herself think any further than that. Already it was too much, her vision misting over. The pieces were disjointed, but were mostly all here. When was Isobelle going to talk to her about this...? It didn't matter. Isobelle was long gone, thanks to the path Nema herself had nudged her down.

Was that just, the pattern? A curse that she carried, a curse that she was?

But she couldn't think any further than that. A gasp of a light sob left her lips. And then another. And another. Why now? This was everything she wanted cut out of her...

Nema set the folders down and sniffed. "Did you-"

"Read that?" Nyssa nodded. "Yes... I read it."

Nema covered her face and fought all the weeping down, but it took labored breathing to try.

Nyssa wasn't often gentle, but in the moment, she was. "Look, Isobelle didn't care, and I don't, either."

She could only gasp a breath in response, sniffle, nod.

"You are what you make yourself, Nemaelle Page. And you know what I see you making yourself into?" Nyssa shut the files on Nema and pointed to the ones on Michael. "I see you making yourself into someone who is insatiable for the truth. If Isobelle were here, she would be so proud of you..."

Nema slowly sank in the chair Isobelle always occupied, swiping the tears from her rosy cheeks. "... This is really happening? I don't... I don't even have a degree-"

"Does the Bulletin look like a traditional newspaper to you? Because if it was, I wouldn't have humored you when you first showed up." Nyssa scoffed quietly. "I know you've been feeling down on your luck these days. But all I've been thinking, the more I see you pop your head in here with all this information and all this moxie is... Damn. Why are you wasting your time giving a couple of lawyers their coffee and carrying their paperwork? You're meant for bigger things, believe me... This is your niche."

She took a breath and swallowed down the rest of her upset, feeling it twist and roll in her stomach... but she nodded. Said nothing. But nodded.

"Get to work, okay?" Only Nyssa could make a demand sound like comfort. "Start digging. I'll come get you when I've got Tepper's address."

She shut the door behind her, leaving Nema in the memorial that was Isobelle Urich's office... now, her office, but she knew it would take a long while before it truly felt like hers. She stared at the piles of folders and rested a hand on each – her left hand on Michael's, her right on her own. They were almost the same thickness, full of each other's wounds, and boogeymen, and secrets...

Nema took one deep, centering breath, and flipped open Michael's files.


	15. Miss

**The War for Hell's Kitchen  
** _Miss  
_ By: Brenli

The doe was back again, and at this point Michael couldn't decide if it would have been better to ignore the creature or pay very close attention to her. They, of course the proverbial they, said details that stood out in dreams were important, and yet he felt like it distracted him. Looking at the doe, and not the men, not their particular positions, not piecing together the who through to the why.

How many days, now? In the cell, he'd taken to scratching tally marks in the wall, and it had been another week at least since the doe began infiltrating his dreams. Had something broken in his already broken head? Was this guilt, like the word scrawled across each man who fell? He just wanted to solve his mystery, not have more visited upon him.

Yet when the doe darted out of his line of vision again, somewhere behind him, it felt like the sun leaving him. Leaving behind the same scene he'd gone over a hundred, a thousand times, with nothing new to offer him.

Irish.

Cartel.

Bikers.

The frustration of not knowing set even more tears in his eyes, looking down at the terrible red hole that was Jenebel's face. He heard the steps of the man in the khaki trench coat, and Michael dared to do something beyond staring and mourning. "... Miss."

"I'm here."

God, he'd known, he'd known all along. He turned his head to look over his shoulder and saw her kneeling before Bal's crumpled body, hair gold as wheat spread across blood soaked grass, eyes blue as shining seas staring at nothing. His face pinched together in fresh pain, watching Miss Nema Page gently straighten Bal's body out, resting her palms upon her shot up stomach, shutting those blue eyes. She did the work solemnly, the sun causing her pale strands to glow white, twisted into a bun, secured with a pen. Her hands rested on her thighs, getting blood on the sundress she wore – the color of buckskin, flaring from the hip. It didn't bother her. He watched her pull the pen from her hair, sending the strands tumbling down her back like sunbeams across her body, and she stood, her black, patent leather heels shining as she crossed toward yet another man. "... Miss..." His voice croaked on tears, and he tried again. "Miss."

She only looked at him briefly, doe eyes like chocolate melting in the sun, before she reached the man and clicked the top button of her pen and began writing. 'Guilty,' the ink trail blooming across the forehead, thicker than it should have been.

"Nema," Calling her by her name felt strange, like he was at once both alienating her and letting her in. "What are you doing?"

She looked at him before she could finish the word, just one pen stroke left. "I'm hunting."

The final pen stroke. The man fell. She wasted no time and was immediately moving on to the next, such was her hunger...

"Stop..."

Another man fell. Another.

"Stop, Miss..."

Another.

"Stop!" The demand felt like a gunshot leaving his mouth, and what made it all the worse was that of course, of course in dreams the absurd could happen.

Like how a spot of blood began growing from the middle of Nema's back.

Something awoke in him, then, the shock and dismay familiar to him but hurting no less than before. What had he done, what had he done...? "No..." He found himself beginning to shift, to turn around, though he still held Jenny's body in his arms. "No, no, no... Miss...!" Michael almost set his daughter down.

But when Nema turned to him, the verbal bullet having gone straight through her and making the red bloom menacingly across the front of her dress, too, she reacted like his cruelty couldn't kill her.

They were that way for a second that felt like an hour. Michael, turned all the way around, on his knees in the grass. Nema, standing there, bleeding but not feeling it. Staring at each other, and not saying anything, like how so much of their time had been spent.

He pushed himself beyond it, and it felt like blood pouring out of his heart. He was afraid to look down, lest that actually be happening. "Everyone who gets involved is going to be hurt."

Nema's head tilted. "You care so much about a doe, hunter?"

"You have no part in this. Look around you...!" One arm cradled Jenny while the other waved across the air. "This isn't yours! This is so far below you!"

"Let me decide what is below me." Nema went back to work, hunting killers by writing 'guilty' across their foreheads.

Michael almost stood. Michael almost set his daughter down to stand up and physically restrain her. "I didn't ask you to help me...!"

"Many people don't ask for help, even though that's what they need."

His reaction was violent. "I've never needed help for fucking _anything_ -"

"Don't lie to me!" She snapped back, brutal as the new spots of blood on her dress. Again, all the verbal artillery in the world meant nothing to her. Nema merely pointed at him with her pen, and it felt far more menacing than any gun. "Don't you _ever_ lie to me!" Her eyes cut like a knife.

God, what was he to make of any of this? Too surreal. Too real. "... Please..." He was on his knees with his dead daughter in his arms, pleading, but he didn't know what for. "Please... Please..."

The pen flipped in Nema's pale fingers, thumb clicking the top button. It felt like she'd put a gun back in its holster. "The truth will set you free."

He bowed over Jenebel and wept aloud. He was breaking apart like he'd eaten grenades, he was burning like napalm had been dumped all over him. He was suffering so badly that he couldn't react to her approaching footsteps, or how she knelt there with him, or how he felt a pressing against the center of his forehead, and he knew it was her own. "Please...!"

"I will." Her voice was soft, her breath a gentle tickle against his lips, his chin.

She committed before he voiced it, but she had known all along. "Help me... help me...!" Michael felt like his rib cage had been cracked apart and his guts were open in the daylight.

Nema had a way of making the pain of it feel like a release. "Help me help you." And the plea almost felt like a healing kiss.

It startled him enough to make him flinch and pull away the smallest of inches. She wasn't even looking at him, chocolate-doe eyes turned down to his baby girl. Two big fat tears fell along her face, one from each eye. One pale hand rested on what was left of his daughter's cheekbone, and he was so... He was so... "I don't want to see her this way, anymore."

"Then don't."

"How...?"

"Let go."

The claim made wildness flare up within him, shock and disgust and so much more. Their eyes met, and he felt the sharpness of his glare cut against his eyelids. "If that's your help then I don't want it! You hear me? I don't!"

"I heard you." Nema replied firmly, with one hand suddenly pressed against his heart. It felt like she'd grabbed hold of it and held it tight enough to begin aching. "They are always going to be a part of you. Nothing you do, nothing you kill, and nothing you create will change that." She released him, only to rest that same hand on his cheek. "They're always with you. No one can take that away. Not even all these men." She waited until his tears had run across her fingers before she whispered. "Look down..."

Though fear speared through him, he obeyed, and she was whole. Jenebel was whole in his arms, even if her clothes were still bloodied. Eyes shut, as though merely asleep. He cracked open all the further for it and began to rain kisses upon her face, kisses he'd longed to give since the day of the massacre, and during every dream that followed.

"You let them go only as far as you allow yourself."

Michael at once wanted to embrace and destroy what she gently murmured, but when he straightened back up, he saw that she'd shifted onto one hip. A more comfortable position, that allowed the both of them to see his fallen wife. Also whole. Also looking as if she only slept. If only, if only...

"They love you."

"I know." His voice was wartorn.

"They want you to be happy."

"I'll be happy when everyone responsible is _dead_."

Nema's pale gold hair swung across her shoulders and settled across one side of her chest as she turned to look at him, again. "Oh, is that all?" He couldn't read the look on her face. Amused but suffering. Aggressive and sad. Hopeful. Disappointed. Something.

Her pen clicked, she turned around again and began pointing with it. "Who here hasn't died yet?"

"Most of 'em have been taken care of." And then most of them were gone. Irish. Cartel. Bikers. But there were figures frozen about the edges, and even a couple on the carousel itself. Figures he'd had a hard time placing, and the frustration of it hit him hard. "Nema, I don't know." Her name had become a plea, or a prayer. One point of view made her feel closer and the other made her feel so far away.

"Yes, you do."

"I don't." He was crestfallen. Lost in the sea of bullet-riddled bodies. Irish. Cartel. Bikers. Bal. Jenebel. He looked down. Her face was gone. "I don't..."

Suddenly Nema had turned back around, and she was savage, on her hands and knees, doe eyes cutting like a knife. She had the tip of her pen pointed at his heart. "The truth will set you free."

"It won't!" And he couldn't explain how, but he knew that to the core.

"It will!" And he knew that to the core, too.

How could it be both? How? What wasn't he realizing, remembering? What was he holding himself back from seeing?

The brown-eyed girl was suddenly pointing with that pen over his shoulder. "Who is he?"

He turned back around just in time to get shot in the head.

He jolted upright, reaching for his right temple reflexively. Of course, the wound had long since healed, though the scars of it remained. The hole in his skull, and the mental mess he'd become...

"... _Fuck_." Michael growled and thumped the heel of his palm against his temple. Would the next dream be more of this newness? Nema in a dress the color of buckskin, doe-eyed and brutal? Breathing against his lips and hunting killers by writing 'guilty' on their foreheads? Talking to him about the truth, and letting go? He shut his eyes and took deep breaths. He wasn't ready. He needed to be ready.

Michael wasn't sure how long he'd stayed like that, sitting up in his uncomfortable cot with his eyes shut and his hand against his temple, the picture of frustration. All he knew was that it hadn't been long enough for him to calm his nerves before Glasses Goon came around, again. "It's time."

"For?"

"We'll have to see."


	16. Max

**The War for Hell's Kitchen  
** _Max  
_ By: Brenli

"Hear anything?"

Nema jumped so suddenly that her pen scratched a line across one of several pads of paper. "Nyssa, honestly...!" Her brown eyes rolled in a great big circle as she planted her elbows on the desk and rested her face in her hands.

In true Nyssa fashion, she wasn't particularly sorry for startling the other woman. "You really need to be more observant. The way this place is set up, you ought to be able to see anybody coming when your door is open."

"Not how I function when I'm working." Nema spoke into her hands.

"So did you hear anything?"

"About?" Every now and then over the past week, Nyssa would ask her this, and each time she was afraid it had to do not with articles in the works, but with news. About Michael Castle, perishing in prison. Her hands covered the tight little frown as she opened her eyes and waited.

Nyssa leaned against the door and rested one hand on the knob. "The John Doe."

She felt her body unwind and sighed into her hands. Every moment that allowed her to believe Michael was still holding his own in prison was a blessing. "No..." The disappointment was there, but tempered in the relief that Nyssa wasn't dropping terrible news into her lap. "The police don't want to release any information about undercover investigators. Imagine that."

"Yeah, but when does the police want to release anything?" Nyssa said pointedly, brows arching.

Nema understood the pushing. The encouragement, such as only Nyssa could give. She shook her head, reaching for her pen, again. "It's more than that... though I don't have anything concrete to tell you. It's just... feelings. They wouldn't let me record anything."

"Feelings, like what?"

"Like they won't tell me anything because it's not... resolved?" She tilted her head at the word.

Nyssa wasn't often the head-tilting type, but she was certainly the deadpan type. "Of course it's not resolved. None of the massacre is resolved."

"No, I mean... whatever the John Doe was there for. It's still... underway."

They shared a moment's stare before Nyssa stepped further in and shut the door. "The drug bust isn't busted?"

"I really get that feeling."

"Go higher up."

Nema gestured. "How high? DA's office? The mayor? They'll all shut me out if the investigation's still in progress."

"That's not the point. You keep going up until somebody specifically tells you they can't tell you anything _because_ it's unfinished. Then you'll know how high this goes."

Gutsy. And not the article Nema originally thought she'd be working on. "I won't be able to write any of that."

"Journalists speculate all the time." Nyssa nodded at the pad of paper, now marred with an accidental pen stroke. "If the John Doe was a dead end for you thus far, what is all that you're scribbling there?"

Nema nervously clicked her pen several times while shaking her head. "Personal notes."

She crossed her arms. "I'm not paying you to write personal notes."

"Sorry."

But Nyssa didn't seem as annoyed as she could have been, a corner of her mouth lifting as she opened the door. "Set up a meeting in the DA's office and go from there. Don't forget the audio; in my experience they start getting a little sloppy around that level, before you hit federal."

 _Federal?_ Nema didn't know what she was going to do if this turned out to be something the DEA had hands in... or, who knows? FBI. CIA.

Or acronyms for organizations the general populace didn't know.

The thought sent her down a darker road, a roundabout that turned back toward herself, and she pulled open the bottom right drawer of the desk. Two piles of folders and notes, separated by dividers, each tagged with a name. Michael Castle. Nemaelle Page.

Piles of mysteries and losses.

She clicked her pen as her other hand hovered over her folders, and then hastily grabbed Michael's. Her breath quivered on her lips as she began slipping photos and files back into it – crime scene photos of the place the Irish mob had taken Michael, had tied him to a chair and – judging from the blood all around it – tortured him mercilessly.

No wonder he'd looked so beat up, swollen and discolored all over, when they first spoke to one another. But he'd healed over well, and by the last time she saw him, his face was looking more like the ones in the photos found by authorities within the Irish mob's lair. Ones of him... happier? Not happy, but happier. Still a bit beat up, but the bruises were more like discolored whispers. A scrape by his upper lip, but that wasn't the point, she told herself as her fingertip slipped past it. Like she meant to brush it away.

The point was the dog he was walking. A charcoal gray pit bull with a big splotch of white on its chest and stomach, looking like it might have belly flopped onto fresh paint. Floppy eared and open mouthed, giving the kind of smile that pit bulls often did when they were enjoying their day.

When Nema had first come across the photos, she couldn't help but find it endearing. There weren't many pictures of him after the shooting, and the ones before... well, they were from before. Regarded as such, even by Michael himself, judging from their interactions. Like something lost and never to be recovered again, but these photos, with the dog... They meant something.

She slipped the photos back into the folders, along with all the copies of plans and notes taken from phones and papers in pockets and wallets. Things about taking their 'property' back. 'Bait him with bait dog.' And then police reports that the cleanup of the building had simultaneously resulted in the busting of a dog fighting kennel.

Nema had jotted down all that she could gather from the photos and files present. She figured it would look less awkward, or less intimidating, when she dropped in on the pet supply shop that Michael had been spotted leaving routinely.

The whole way there, weaving through stop-and-go traffic, she questioned herself. Why was she doing this...? Yes, absolutely, this wasn't a bad thing. Who would call animal welfare a bad thing? And with Setsuna busy looking for new work, and Uriel doing... who even knew what, anymore... she could use the company.

But why _his_ dog?

The question came more from a place of cold logic than anything else. It sounded like the kind of thing her father might have asked, when he wasn't busy with...

She blocked off that train of thought fast. It didn't _matter_ why it had to be Michael's dog. The poor thing had been through something she didn't want to imagine, saved by him, stolen back into it, and now...? In some pound? Hopefully in an actual rescue. Maybe being rehabilitated, though she couldn't imagine how much the cheerful-looking thing needed. The dog didn't seem aggressive in the photos... at all. Like its only crime would have been belly flopping onto wet paint.

Maybe the dog would have already been put up for adoption, then. Maybe already adopted. Nema told herself to be happy if that were true, stepping in and hearing the bell hanging above the door jingle with her entrance. Yet she couldn't deny the little pinch of disappointment, too. Not easily explained...

"Welcome, what are you looking for?" The shopkeeper seemed very preoccupied, but that wasn't so different from a lot of the locally-owned shops in Hell's Kitchen, in the first place. Pride kept owners from wanting to look too desperate for business, and seeming busy had a way of making transactions go by quicker. Everybody's time was valuable to them, after all.

So Nema was prompt, pulling out the paper with all the notes she'd scrawled on it. "Yeah, um... I'm looking to adopt a dog but I need to stock up on some things, first. Food, bowls, collar, leash, bed, toys."

"Whole nine yards, huh?"

"Of course."

"Good. Know what breed?"

"Pit bull."

The shopkeeper's brows shot up at that. "Really?"

Nema blinked chocolate-doe eyes at him. "Guessing I don't really look like the type, huh?"

"Hey, those dogs are damn loyal and very sweet; glad to see chihuahua girls learning that!"

… Nema didn't know what to make of the fact that she apparently looked like a 'chihuahua girl.' "Think you could point me to the best brands and stuff?"

"Sure, sure," The shopkeeper waved her along with him, but she'd stopped, staring at a little stand with tags for sale. Some metal, some plastic, a rainbow of colors, some shaped like bones, some shaped like hearts. A row of round ones along the side meant to be sold alongside the actual nameplate.

'Free Michael'

'I Stand with Michael'

'Michael Castle is No Monster'

A print of one of the many media photos used over the course of his case, bruised, ginger-red hair, orange jumpsuit, the American flag behind his head. 'V4M' beneath it. She touched it.

"Veterans for Michael."

Nema's brown eyes swiveled up to him in honest surprise. Was this what she got for being so focused on her article, on continuing to get to the bottom of Michael's mystery? She was out of the loop with a lot of the frenzy in the general populace, though she knew it was there. But an actual organization?

"That man gets what it means to be a soldier. We fight so the innocent never feel a threat again."

"You serve?"

"Yes, Ma'am. 'Nam. 3rd Marine Division."

Nema inclined her head in respect. "Thank you for your service."

But that was when he stared at her with scrutiny, and she wondered if he was not the type to enjoy when the thanks were given. "... Hey, you were on his legal team, huh?"

"What?" The shopkeeper pointed to one of the later newspaper front pages, with Michael sitting and listening to witness testimony. She could tell it was from the expert witness' testimony because the shot had captured her on the far edge, her elbow thumping Michael's arm. She'd had no idea she looked that smug, at the time. "Oh, uh... Well, yeah." Would the fact that the team she was on lost the case have any effect on him?

It did... albeit strangely positively, like he'd just found out they shared a friend. "A real stand up guy, ain't he? It's real horrible that they put him away. He came here once a week to get Max a couple of big treats; bring the dog in. One of the happiest damn dogs I've seen come in here." A frown creased the shopkeeper's mouth. "Poor Max... Sure hope that overgrown pup ends up in good hands, soon..."

Nema's brow gently furrowed. No way... "You know where Michael's dog is?" Could she be so lucky, after all the misfortune that had befallen her?

"Sure do, Ma'am. I don't think I'd make a very good pet shop owner if I didn't keep tabs on at least some of the local rescues. A dog fighting kennel... can you believe it? There's no way Max would've made it out of that. He's just too damn kind-hearted." The shopkeeper sighed. "Been keeping an eye on him ever since I spotted him among the new arrivals. I'd love to take him myself, but with a wife, three kids and a spastic border collie? I just don't have the means." He waved Nema along again, began grabbing things for her – collar, leash, two bowls. He tucked a giant dog bed that looked more like an enormous cloud under his arm. "It's a crying shame, though. People look at him and just see yet another pitt dumped into a rescue. Every now and then the workers there say someone will inquire but they hear the words 'dog fighting' and get scared off." His stride slowed, pausing, looking at Nema. "... Hey-"

"I'm interested." She didn't need him to finish, bright-eyed and trying to grasp the incredible luck. She had anticipated having to do the shelter hunting herself, hadn't expected the shopkeeper to be so... involved, in this aspect of Michael's life. She'd been so used to having to fight for Michael's humanity, her instinct was to assume the people she spoke with considered him a monster. At least, until proven otherwise.

"Great!" The shopkeeper beamed and tucked a big bag of kibble under his other arm before turning and heading back to the register. "I'll get you the number and the address; you let them know I referenced you. Here's my card." He dumped it into a bag along with the bowls, the collar, the leash. He dropped a couple of giant, bone-shaped dog biscuits in, too, along with a very squeaky rubber mallard for a toy. Without needing to be asked, he grabbed a dog tag and pushed a small form at her. "You know the drill, address, phone number. If they let you take Max they're gonna give you one but it'll only have his shelter ID number on it."

"Oh, that won't do...!" Nema said as she scrawled her information down.

The shopkeeper took it with a smile. "I think they'll love you. Girl who worked on Michael's case is sure to treat his dog right." As he waited for the engraving, he asked, "So, how's he doing in there, anyway? You heard from him?"

She balked a bit at that. Why would a stranger, even a friendly one who liked the same man she did, think she was still in contact with him? What gave him that idea? "Oh, I, um... during the sentencing, the judge declared that he wouldn't be allowed visitations." And even if the judge had, she wasn't going to assume Michael would put her on the list of allowed visitors. Well... maybe he would have?

No. No, why would he do that? He'd said it, himself, 'You don't know me, Nema.'

"You're shitting me." The shopkeeper grumbled. "It's an injustice. They ought to be _thanking_ him...!" He dropped the finished tag into the bag... and reached out, patting her shoulder. "You hang in there, okay?" A rather strange thing to say to her...

… _Oh._ "I, uh... I'm not... _involved_ with him." She was confused. Why would he think that of her? Nerves made her bubble over in laughter. "Pretty sure it would've been illegal to be part of the legal team if I was, you know what I mean?"

The shopkeeper snorted. "Well it's no secret the justice system needs some work." He shook his head with a sigh and rung her up. "Treats and toys are free... and you know what? Here." He grabbed one of the 'I Stand with Michael' accessory tags and dropped it into the bag, too. "Because fuck 'em."

Nema wasn't sure how to react... did he not hear that Michael had thrown his own trial, practically forced them to give him a 'guilty' sentence? As much as she agreed with the shopkeeper... it was what Michael wanted, for some reason that still escaped her. Though God knows, she tried to make sense of it. She tried...

"Swing on by once Max is situated at your place, all right? I miss that slap-happy dog...!"

She left the shopkeeper with a slightly bemused smile, the kibble tucked under one arm, the cloud of a bed under the other, and the bag of everything else dangling from her wrist. She couldn't even guarantee that she'd get to adopt the dog... but she had to try. Learning with certainty that the poor thing, poor Max, had been stuck in a rescue for all this time only broke her heart.

This time, maneuvering through New York traffic was all the more aggravating. Max had been waiting for so long. He didn't deserve to wait a moment longer... When Nema parked, she chose the nearest lot, not caring how much it cost, and hurried in on her patent leather heels.

"H-"

"I'm looking to adopt." Nema blinked fast enough to make her lashes flutter, and willed herself to calm down.

Her enthusiasm had clearly taken the shelter worker by surprise, because the lady just blinked back.

"I was referred here..." She offered, holding out the card the shopkeeper had given her. "He said that the dog I was looking for is here? Max? Pit bull?"

It was only then when the shelter worker's eyes lit up. "Oh...! Yeah, this guy checks in on Max a whole lot! Is it true...?" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Max is the Punisher's dog?"

Hearing the name bestowed on Michael by the public made Nema have to fight off a sigh. "Yes, he's Michael's dog."

"Wow...!" The shelter worker began leading her down a hall. "That's...! I kind of figured the Punisher's dog would be-"

"What?" Nema said, perhaps a bit too forcefully, and she swallowed the moody anger. She probably shouldn't get snappy if she was looking to get approved to adopt...

"... I don't know. Guys like him... wouldn't they want their dogs to be more, I don't know, serious?"

"I feel like Michael's pretty hugely misunderstood, honestly." Why _shouldn't_ Michael want a dog who was as happy as the shopkeeper made him sound, as cheerful as the photos made him look? If anything, that was what Michael needed...

"... Then you _are_ her, huh?"

Was she some kind of vague media phenomenon and she'd just been too busy to realize it? "I was the secretary on his legal team, if that's what you're asking. Yeah."

"Wow, what was that like?"

Intense. Aggravating. Heartwrenching. A lot like entering battle... Bonding. "I... don't even know how to describe it."

The shelter worker nodded vigorously. "I can understand that!" She pushed open a door, and the pair were greeted with a number of barks. Dog after dog after dog, in great big squared-off segments of the room, with fencing for doors. "Forgive 'em, they're clamoring for some running around but they've still got about an hour to go. Max is on the end, here... Hey, Max! Hey, boy!"

Strangely – or perhaps, not so strangely; for all Nema knew the poor dog had been raised sequestered into corners like this – Max hasn't pressing his paws against the chain-link fencing, though his charcoal gray ears had perked up, mouth opening into a pit bull smile.

Nema fell in love.

"Heya, Max... hey...!" She cooed softly, kneeling before him.

"Now, I don't know how much the Punisher or anyone said about Max here. I just want to tell you that he's got a little history in dog fighting, but he's a total sweetheart; he was most likely used as a bait dog."

The term recalled the note in Michael's folders. 'Bait him with bait dog.' It made her frown and reach out, gently slipping the tips of her fingers through the holes of the chain-link fencing. "You're okay, now."

Max didn't immediately come forward, but his charcoal tail wagged and slapped against the floor, making Nema softly laugh.

"I know your human dad. I know Michael." She wiggled her fingers and swore she saw recognition in his eyes. "You're okay, now..."

"You're not kidding around about how excited you are to adopt this guy, huh?" The shelter worker marveled with an arched brow, but when Max suddenly half-scooted, half-flopped his way over to Nema's fingers and let her lightly scratch behind his ear, she smiled.

"He deserves to be loved." Nema turned a chocolate-doe gaze upon the shelter worker.

She looked at the card Nema had given her, "... Tell you what. Fill out the forms, and I'll call up your reference, here, while the background check goes through. And while we're waiting, you can take Max out a little early and play with him out back?"

Which was exactly what happened. Nema scrawled out every piece of information the adoption forms asked for, even let the shelter scan her ID, and while the workers took care of their end of the process, Nema slipped off her high heels and got to take Max out to the little grassy yard the shelter had.

The result was a rare, two-hour long play period for Max, in which Nema learned that he had a huge joy for frisbees and playing tug of war with knotted rope. He was used to stronger people playing that game with him, clearly, tugging Nema hard enough that she stumbled to her knees. But Max had come forward to deliver ridiculously sloppy kisses, like he meant to kiss the grass stains away, and she... she laughed. A loud tinkling bell of a laugh, that she had been far too stressed to have for so long, now.

She learned, in the process of receiving those sloppy kisses and petting him, that though he looked perfect, his charcoal coat shiny as polished gunmetal, she could feel the tougher flesh of scarring at spots along his shoulders, his hips. So Max wasn't an 'almost.' He wasn't a dog who'd managed to escape the fighting ring just in time...

She hugged him and told him yet again, "You're okay, now."

The shelter worker was ready to speak with her when the other dogs came out to play, but Nema put it off in favor of letting Max play with the others, in joining in. God, this was downright therapeutic. Maybe she should volunteer...

By the time the dogs needed to be sent back in, Nema felt like whining like a petulant child and holding on tight to Max, but swallowed the urge and instead stood right by his kennel with her fingers slipped through the chain-link fence. This time Max was standing, tail wagging mile-a-minute, pit bull smile only disappearing when he licked her fingertips.

"The checks and the references all check out, Miss Page...!" The shelter worker beamed happily. "And you and Max seem to be getting along really well! Are you still-"

"Yes." Her response was automatic. "What's the fee?"

Not that the fee really mattered. It was a hefty amount, but in Nema's mind it was worth every penny to get Max into a real home. He deserved a real home... even if that home was just her apartment. For the first time since she'd left, she wished she had a home in Vermont, again. Up in the mountains, with access to Lake Champlain. Max would love something like that, she was sure...

But they would have to settle for regular trips to parks, and car rides like the one Max clearly enjoyed all the way home. Vermont was in the past, tainted by cobalt.

She hit the brakes a little too hard when she parked, but Max didn't seem to mind. He was of the present, and his great big dopey smile brought her to the present, too. She wondered if Max did the same for Michael... "Ready to go inside, Max?"

Nema only had the end of the leash loosely circling her wrist, but Max was calm for all his happiness and didn't drag her to her door, as she carried the kibble and the cloud of a bed and everything else. Such a marvelously well-behaved dog... She had no idea how he'd gone so long without anyone adopting him, but considered it a miracle that she got to have him in her life, now. For his sake. For Michael's, too.

She wished she could have let him know...


	17. Conjugal

**The War for Hell's Kitchen  
** _Conjugal  
_ By: Brenli

Michael wouldn't have necessarily ever considered himself a coffee snob by any means... but holy shit.

This coffee was terrible.

He drank it, anyway, drank cup after cup of it. He was sure Lucifer Fisk was starting to wonder if he was trying to feed some kind of addiction, but he allowed his attack dog to partake in however much he wanted. There were worse things to require, after all.

And Michael certainly required it. The moment he'd allowed the doe to become Miss Nema Page was the moment he'd fucked himself over. Reliving that massacre in dream after dream was a necessary nightmare; he needed it in order to keep his hunt going. But now she was there, writing 'guilty' on the foreheads of shooters and weeping over his daughter and laying out his wife nice and perfect. Breathing against his mouth.

He couldn't have this. It was ruining everything. So he'd taken to avoiding sleep as much as he possibly could, and that, eventually, despite all military training in operating under sleep deprivation, meant coffee. Shitty-tasting coffee, but he'd drink it, anyway.

There were consequences to this behavior, he knew it. When even the caffeine failed him, his dreams were even less normal than before. Once the dream had taken place at night and Nema was watching him from the lit-up carousel, warm lights making her look like the fucking sun. Another time he'd reacted aggressively toward her and she'd reverted to the form of a doe, only to get riddled with bullets. He'd set Jenebel down and began to spring toward those who shot her, and got blasted in the head by the man in the khaki trench coat. And then the last dream he hadn't been able to avoid didn't take place in Central Park. It wasn't even present fucking _day_. It was the 1940's and he was in uniform at some USO concert thing and he was really drunk, really loud, and fucking drooling over Miss Nema Page with her pale gold hair in perfect Veronica Lake waves and ruby red lips singing some shit about a sweet-talking, sugar-coated candyman.

Michael asked Lucifer if the instant coffee was laced with something special after that one. Lucifer gave him a single, steel-eyed blink before flatly asking if he seemed like the kind of man who would do something like that without charging some kind of fee.

Fuck... but he didn't know what else to do but drink more coffee. This wasn't what he wanted. He wanted to have his same terrible fucking blood-drenched memory-dreams, he didn't want the doe, or her in a buckskin-colored dress, or her looking like the kind of girl he would have hung up in his barracks because hot damn, look at her. It wasn't right. It wasn't normal. It wasn't what he could have; all he could have was a dead family and guns in his hands.

Michael's head fell back against the wall he'd been scratching tally marks into, his cup empty, and sighed. He considered praying, though it had been a very long time since he'd prayed, and he didn't know exactly what he wanted to pray for. He just... felt the urge in him. He was caged up. He was lost. He was confused. He was distracted. He just felt what he felt. He needed guidance.

It was night time and between guard patrols, so when he heard it, the feeling of dread hit him, and he reached for the shiv. The tacking sound of footsteps, peculiar and unique.

A doe walked past his cell, riddled with gunshots, leaving a trail of blood drops in her wake.

Shit. What must have been little more than a blink sent him under, and he hadn't realized it because the scenery had stayed the same.

The heavy thud of a body dropping to the ground further caught his attention, distracting him from his train of thought. "... Miss." Michael's voice was a whisper laced in panic. A secret he would keep all to himself; he'd rather no one knew he was even capable of panicking... "Nema." He tried again. Louder. "Nema, tell me you're okay. I can't see you from my cell."

Nothing.

So he suddenly stood, his cup rolling away from him. "Nema, please!"

"I'm fine." The tacking sound of her footsteps started again. Patent leather heels backtracking through the blood trail she left, until she stood before his jail cell in her dress the color of buckskin, bloodstained.

Michael frowned at the wet shine of those stains. "No, you're not."

She shrugged, "Your cruelty doesn't hurt me."

"I get the feeling nothing does."

"Oh..." She stepped up to the bars, pale fingers curling around the coldness of them. "Now that's too generous."

"Yeah?" Michael's ginger brow furrowed. "Then what hurts you?"

She didn't answer, only smiled at him, hands slipping down the bars as she leaned forward and motioned him closer with a jerk of her head.

Apprehension had him tense all over, trigger finger going... until he realized every twitch was causing dots of red to bloom all across her dress. Fuck. Michael took a breath to calm himself.

"That's it."

Like she read his mind. Maybe she was able to do that in reality, too; it would explain why she seemed to inherently... _know_ him, despite nothing of their relationship being normal. "... Miss."

She gave him another little jerk of her head. "Sir."

What the fuck. But he did as she wanted and came closer.

Nema smiled brightly. "Are you that scared of sweet little me?"

"With all due respect, you fucking terrify me."

A thin stream of blood suddenly slipped from the corner of her lips, making his eyes shoot wide. He closed the gap between them until only the bars held them apart, and he reached through to take her by her shoulders. As her hands covered her face, he was reduced to a low and frantic mumble of her name. It didn't make sense. It just was what it was.

She coughed twice, and when her hands dropped there was absolutely no evidence of the bleeding happening. Nema smiled; not even her mouth was stained with it. "Wow, um..." Her face flared bright red. "That was embarrassing."

"I'm sorry." It was his fault. It had to have been his fault. Every single wound she'd endured in his fucked up dream world was his fault...

But Nema brushed it off with a very breathy laugh, tickling his chin. "Your cruelty doesn't hurt me."

"Yet here you are bleeding all over the place." They were so close, he felt like he had to whisper.

"You can change that, hmm?"

"How?"

She whispered, so very close to his lips, "Let me in."

Bars kept them apart but they couldn't keep them from kissing, and Michael didn't know where it came from, or how to feel about it. It was what it was. It was a kiss, because her being near him wounded her and her being pushed away from him wounded her and he didn't know what to do to just. Stop. Wounding. Her.

And her lips were so soft.

And her skin was so warm.

And the flat, ugly buzz his cell made to signal it was opening should have been grating to the ear, but it wasn't.

Nema made no effort to hide the effect the kiss had on her, and to be fair, Michael knew the brown-eyed girl couldn't hide anything, anyway. Rosy-cheeked, half-lidded, open-mouthed, contented sigh. Just from a kiss alone, and not even a particularly intense kiss. He'd given more intense kisses.

She stepped in and the door shut behind her, locking her in with him. "More..."

Jesus Christ, she was absolutely wanton, and he hadn't expected it from her. She was melting-chocolate-sunshine, she was brutal, she was doe-sweet, she was hungry, but for fuck's sake, he hadn't figured she'd be hungry like this.

Even though it felt almost familiar. Like it had been staring at him in the face more than once, already.

"You need more..."

"I don't need anything." Michael's voice was a growl, but... but not an aggressive one. Just bewildered. Just tense. Just... something.

"Don't lie to me..." She frowned, doe eyes cutting him like a knife. "Don't you ever lie to me..."

All he wanted to do was drop to his knees and apologize. "Nema, this isn't the answer..." He was pleading. He felt weak...

Nema's sad lips quirked upward into a smile that felt like mercy and felt like brutality. "Not the answer. That doesn't mean you don't need it."

"Need what?" Panic made him snap it out, but it made fresh blood pump from her shot-up gut. Before he knew it, he was holding her hands, groaning because he continued wounding her. "Need... what?" He tried again, quieter, like simply changing his tone would be the balm for her bleeding. Need what? Ogling? Kissing? Sex? Was this a fucking conjugal dream?

"Peace."

Not what he was expecting her to say. "I don't know what peace is, anymore."

"Then let me show you..." She gripped his hands with her own, fingers intertwining so... so easily, so naturally, like they were meant to hold each other that way, and she stepped forward.

He stepped back and pulled his hands away from hers, because he was too tense, too taut... fuck. Too hard. And while it wasn't a foreign sensation, feeling this for Miss Nema Page was... it was...

"They love you."

"I know."

"They want you to be happy."

He knew. He knew, he knew, but... He took one step forward, and she mirrored him. Reached out, and she mirrored him, fingertips touching. "You're still wounded." The blood still marred her dress, darkened it, tainted it.

But she smiled. "Oh, am I?" Nema's hands smoothed down her blood smeared dress; it would have looked downright tempting if it wasn't for the blood. She reached behind her back. Michael heard the telltale sound of a zipper being undone, and then her dress was on the cold jail floor.

She was naked, clean, bloodless. Woundless. Creamy pale, petal pink nipples, a little navel he wanted to kiss, curving hips. Gloriously naked, save for her shining black high heels, which stepped forward and brushed the bloodied dress back with a dainty kick of the heel.

His breath came out ragged. Fists clenched to keep his trigger finger from going haywire, again.

"Is this better?" She asked, doe-eyed, sweetly smiling.

Michael's answer came in the form of charging at her, but she was ready for him. Blue-green gaze burning against chocolate-brown, wordless and reading each other, like they had from the start. If he allowed himself, there was no difficulty in anticipating what she wanted, needed, would do. Her hands came up, braced onto his shoulders. He caught her by her thighs and she wrapped her legs tight around him. Their lips mashed together, and it should have been teeth gnashing, accidental biting, but instead they melded perfectly. His tongue swept into her needy mouth, and slamming her back against the bars of his cell sent a cry from her lips, mixing with the growl coming from his.

No thinking involved, just... just knowing. Just doing, but they did it so well, because it was all they'd ever done with each other. The ease of this made him all the harder, straining, and feeling the delicate softness of her flesh... pressed against his fucking white prison jumpsuit. But even that just made the both of them riled up. Him, still fully clothed, and her, naked... save for those shiny shoes of hers. He could feel the heels of them digging hard against his back, and he loved it.

But he loved even more that in her eagerness, her hands went from his shoulders, across his chest to the very first button, and began undoing them. Such nimble little fingers... they made quick work of the buttons, but had to stop at the waist, where his hips ground hard against hers and made her whimper. Instead, she pulled the plain white t-shirt over his head, one hand dropping it as the other slipped forward and rested square in the center of his chest.

They paused for a mere second, eyes meeting. He knew what she was asking.

"Tags are with everything else." Despite their frenzy, his knuckles brushed across her rose-red cheek. A tender action that fit the chaos simply because they willed it to.

"A crime." She whined sullenly, wiggling against his body. The pressure of hips against hips sent a shiver through him, which escaped his mouth as a laugh.

Fuck, she was so good at making him laugh. "Oh, poor Miss."

"Make me feel better?" Nema certainly knew how to play into a role, her lips pouting, her eyes sweet as a doe's.

How any man could refuse her was beyond him, yet Michael had to tease her, first. He found that he loved teasing her, found that he knew – just knew – that she loved being teased. "So now I'm servicing you, huh?"

"You might get out on good behavior."

He laughed, a deep, rolling, from-the-gut laugh, and she laughed with him, even as they were wound up and achy and needy and it felt like a chaotic, tangled mess. But it also felt natural, it felt easy, it felt like them. Like something only they could have with each other and no one else.

Before his head could take that thought too far, Michael killed it, shot it down with a fierce kiss that she met with all the fervor in the world. "Better brace yourself."

That was all the warning he gave her, instinctively, inexplicably knowing that catching her off guard would only make her all the more wet... juicy... ready for him, when his arms gripped her tight by the waist, and lifted her oh so high. More like tossed her, because for a half-second, she was airborne and squealing, hands flailing and reaching for the jail cell bars, holding on tightly. Yet her body still descended... thighs upon his shoulders, and slick, hot wetness of her core meeting his mouth.

And he was ruthless.

Michael's tongue lashed out in fast, sure strokes and swirls, his hands grabbing onto her hips and holding her against him... Not that she could escape. Gravity worked against her, keeping her attached to him despite any squirming, and oh, oh she squirmed. Writhed helplessly. Her thighs spasmed, jerked, sometimes clenched around his head and sometimes gently parted. It didn't fucking matter. She was at his mercy and the best she could do was hold on tight to prison bars and go along with the ride.

He stared at her as he relished her, the taste of her, the soft tender feel of her, with a hungry blue-green gaze, and she responded in kind. Chest heaving. Reading the pleasure he received in the act of giving her pleasure. In overwhelming her. Michael desperately needed her to know it, and counted it as a blessing that all they had to do was share a glance to convey it. They were that good, together. They'd been that good from the start.

He watched her as the rosiness of her cheeks spread across her nose, as her breath came heavier, and she made an attempt to stifle it by biting her lip. Michael swatted her for it, a sharp slap against her rear that had her yelping in surprise... in ecstasy that became a long moan in her open mouth. Her grip on the bars slipped just slightly, her body began to tighten, to hunch over his busily licking, kissing, sucking mouth.

Just knowing she was close had him moaning. Just moaning had her doe eyes blinking so fast, her lashes were all a-flutter.

Nema could take no more, belting out a keening cry of a release even as his tongue continued to lap at her clenching, soaking wet flesh. Her eyes shut as she crested through it, but the moment she opened them she was back to sharing another beyond-intimate gaze with him.

Michael was still laving at her, though more gently, like easing her down as his hands released her hips and began tugging on his accursed jumpsuit. His eyes were hungry... so hungry... and though sated, his brown-eyed girl was ready for him. So ready that seeing him kick away his clothes made a smile flash across her face.

So ready that when his hands lifted, she reacted accordingly, without needing to be told. Her thighs parted past the width of his shoulders, and she loosened her grip on the prison bars, slipping down to eye-level with him once more. His arms, around her waist. Her legs, around his hips.

And his hard, aching length, sheathed within her pleased body. Michael's moan was a deep rumble that Nema felt through the pressing of their chests, and she wasted no time in working to please him, her hips moving against him, hands caressing a path up his back and into his red hair.

His tongue licked across his glistening lower lip before she captured his mouth in a kiss, and he met her writhing thrusts with thrusts of his own, more powerful because he was standing firm and steady. But like in all things, they found their rhythm without speaking, just feeling and just knowing. He felt the bite of her high heels against bare skin. Oh God, she was still wearing those things, but he didn't have the heart to tell her to kick them off. They felt too good, another layer of something naughty and something so right. "So..." The word came out like it had been tossed through gravel, first.

"So...?" Never had a single syllable sounded so undeniably erotic, so full of sexual splendor and greedy need for more.

Michael's lips began twitching into a smile. "Am I... getting out on good behavior... Miss?"

They laughed, even as they kept thrusting together, even as the pleasure continued blooming through the both of them. Laughter, tempered by sex. Maybe with other people that would have felt awkward. Not with them. "Mmmmmmmmmm..." He suspected Nema meant to make that sound contemplative, but it only came across as relishing. "You... tell me." Her hands slipped down to the nape of his neck, holding his gaze with her own. He understood.

Michael gripped hard onto her thighs and turned fast, her pale gold hair swinging across her shoulders as he rushed for that uncomfortable fucking cot and crashed onto it with his brown-eyed girl. He kept her head cradled with his hand, knowing full well how terrible his cot was. The impact lanced through them but made the pleasure mount all the higher, enough to close their eyes, enough to ride it out and let the stupid cot creak and groan and protest.

And that protesting continued, and he ended their kisses just to open his eyes and take in his surroundings.

Her hair was all in waves like Veronica Lake, her lips ruby red and smudged. She had his sage green Marine uniform hat on her head – somehow; he was thrusting so hard he figured the hat wasn't actually _on_ her head anymore and was just resting on the pillow in the perfect spot – and a polished tube radio was playing a rather static-y Judy Garland through the empty barracks.

He rested his forehead against hers as he continued to thrust. "Jesus Christ..."

Nema was full of moans, reaching up to pull his mouth down onto hers. "Ooooh... I love this one... You made me look so... so pretty."

"Not an... accomplishment, Miss... You're always... damn pretty." Whether in pencil skirts or sundresses, whether with her hair twisted up in pens or swinging across her shoulders.

His words made a smile curl on those scarlet lips, a smile that wavered and faded to give way to moaning aloud, over the radio. "You should hurry, Sir...!"

"Why?" He sure as Hell had no intention of stopping. Michael was too busy relishing the tight, wet feel of her, and too busy kissing her breasts, gently nipping at the rosy peaks of them.

"We'll get caught...!"

"If we get caught, it's only 'cause you can't shut your mouth...!"

Nema's chocolate-doe eyes shot so wide they looked almost owly. "What?" She laughed along with him, but pushed against his chest, prompting him to rise, to roll onto his back as she straddled him. She hooked a single finger around his dog tags – was that why she initially wanted them so badly? – and tugged, just enough for him to feel the chain gently bite at the nape of his neck. "That any way to treat a lady?" She began to ride him, the metal of his cot creaking over and over.

Michael rested his hands on her thighs and groaned.

"Hmm?" She tugged on the chain, as if she needed to get his attention. "A lady who's so, so good to you?"

When she tugged once more, he sat up, taking his hat and placing it on top of her head. "Just being honest, Miss."

The red lipstick, however smeared, accentuated the pout she wore as her eyes cut him like a knife. "Could be worse, Sir."

"Yeah?" He kissed her crimson lips before finishing his breathy, panting banter. "Prove it."

And she did, oh, she did with abandon, pushing him back down onto the cot, throwing her head back, belting out every moan like a long-held note. Michael let her, his own responding groans drowning out the radio. What the fuck, this wasn't even any place he'd been before, any time period he'd actually been a part of.

But that was the nature of dreams, and he'd spent so long locked into a single one, looping on repeat, that he'd actually forgotten it. That was the real beauty of dreams... Their lack of sense. Take a beautiful brown-eyed girl who'd fought so hard for him, turn her into a vintage starlet. Take his damn self and turn into some starry-eyed Marine from a time when war somehow felt more honorable, inexplicably so.

Make love to her.

The loud calls of men could be heard beyond the barracks, and coming ever closer, making her gasp and turn her head. Pale gold strands swung around her shoulders and settled over one breast. The hat tumbled off her and onto his chest.

"Now you've done it." Michael growled. But even disappointment couldn't shake his arousal; it only made him all the more urgent.

"Me?" She protested with a smile, even as Michael rolled the both of them, hovered over her. "It takes two, Sir!"

"Better shut that smart mouth, Miss...!" He teased her with a particularly rough thrust.

Nema had to release an overwhelmed scream before managing to reply, "Sir...!"

"Hmm?" The sharp look in his eye only further teased her. Only initiated a newer game.

"Sir, yes Sir!" Shameless. Ridiculous. He loved it.

"You call that _shutting_ your mouth, huh?" He emphasized his words with another hard thrust, hard enough to feel their hips begin to bruise against each other.

She laughed, but it was a wreck of a laugh, shuddering and overpowered by the feel of him. One hand briefly brushed past her navel, and Michael realized she'd felt the rush of it all the way there. "Sir, no I don't, Sir...!"

"Then let me help you." His hand clamped over her mouth with an unforgiving grip, muffling her cries, making the sounds of approaching men come through clearer.

The urgency made him rough, demanding. Selfish, even.

The urgency had her screaming into his hand.

They had to hurry, and so they were frenzied, at once lost in each other but carefully listening, all the same. Nema's lashes fluttered, and Michael knew what that meant. He wanted to join her. He felt the tensing, the coiling within himself, like a spring so ready to snap, he was close, he was close.

The door to his barracks began opening.

"Fuck!" Michael was desperate and suddenly angry, withdrawing, flipping Nema onto her stomach. She reached out, hands gripping hard for whatever could steady herself. For a moment, the strands of pale gold hair blinded him, and then they were in that damn room with that damn table he had always been cuffed to, but now it was her.

Now it was his brown-eyed girl who was cuffed to that cold table, still naked save for the shoes, bent over, belting out cry after orgasmic cry as he took her from behind. His thrusts were angry because _he_ was angry, because he just wanted release, he just wanted ecstasy, he just wanted happiness, and fuck his broken head for denying him that. He _wanted_ it! Even now there were pictures and files spread all across the table. Pictures of bodies and autopsy reports and front-page articles about his arrest and about his trial, 'Punisher Punished,' 'Trial of the Century,' _he was furious!_

His hands shot out on instinct and began pushing all the papers off the table, casting them away until there was nothing but the inadequate, vague reflection of her face and his own, mirrored in polished, chilly steel.

But she was so warm.

And she was so soft.

And she was murmuring, an 'oh my God' over and over and over, because he'd pushed her to a level beyond coherency. Even her hands didn't seem to know what to do; sometimes pressed flat against the table, sometimes fruitlessly clawing into the metal, sometimes balled up into tight fists. She needed something to ground her.

Michael couldn't pretend to understand how he figured kissing her would do it. He merely acted, his hand curled roughly into hair as pale as sunlight, tugging her head to make it turn, and crashing his lips onto hers. It should have been teeth gnashing, accidental biting. It wasn't.

At last, at long last, his body gave over to climax. It unraveled him from head to toe, eyes shut, growling into her mouth... It was only in his release that he wondered if this was too much for a girl made out of sunshine and melted chocolate; a doe of a girl.

But a doe was as much an animal as he was, and the sun was powerful all on its own. His free hand gripped her hip and held her tight against him, and even then she writhed ever tighter, drawing out his ecstasy like he'd drawn out her own. Matching his growl with a very pleased purr.

When their lips parted, they panted into each other's open mouths... sighed... laughed.

"Just in time."

He opened his eyes. Another scene change, lying in white sheets in a well-lit, mid-day bedroom, Nema's cheek pressed against fluffy pillows. Her chocolate-doe eyes were half-lidded and full of teasing cheer, and she was beautiful. "In time for what?" He mumbled into her shoulder and kissed her there, even when that shoulder began to shake in laughter.

"You can't hear them?"

He thought he heard a flat, ugly buzz. But that could have just as easily been a really fucking terrible car horn or... or something.

His brown-eyed girl began to move, to twist beneath him until she was on her back, not her stomach. "Stay alive, okay?"

"Miss?" It wasn't until the confused, gradually concerned frown curled his lips that he registered his face was actually aching a little, from so much smiling.

"Just stay alive." Her hands suddenly planted against his shoulders and pushed.

Michael jolted, and all he knew was that there were hands on his shoulders. His reaction was immediate, pulling the shiv from his pocket and slashing outward with a bewildered, aggressive growl.

Glasses Goon fell backward and scrambled. "Easy, easy, easy...!"

Not easy. Michael was on his feet in seconds, trigger finger pumping like mad, wild and wide-eyed. "What the fuck is wrong with you, huh?"

"Me?" Glasses Goon said incredulously. "What's wrong with-" He reconsidered what he was about to shout, took a few breaths while standing and dusting himself off, and started over. "It's time."

Michael's jaw clenched. "For?"

But this time, Glasses Goon's reply wasn't the usual 'we'll have to see.' "It's almost 1500 hours... time to pay Dutton a visit."


	18. Dog Fight

**The War for Hell's Kitchen  
** _Dog Fight  
_ By: Brenli

Time to pay Dutton a visit...

How had he let this happen? It wasn't that he didn't want to gut the guy. Goodness knows that he did. But he hadn't found a way to cut Miss Nema Page out of the dangerous design Lucifer Fisk had drawn over him. He hadn't found a way to cut _himself_ free. He still needed time. He needed time!

The desperate thought set his broken-up head in flames, even if his face didn't show it. Even if his pace was even and calm as he made the journey toward Officer Smug, armed with a fucking pile of folded up towels in his arms. White as the jumpsuit they were still making him wear, though he figured he was past 'new guy' status.

Maybe that was why it was time to pay Dutton a visit; maybe the continuous wearing of white made him stand out, anyway, and Lucifer's patience had worn too thin to wait for a man as infamous as himself to become invisible.

He'd heard that sometimes prisoners were kept in white if they were a 'flight risk,' which was really fucking cute because it wasn't as if he'd bothered trying to make any escapes. At least, not yet.

But suffice it to say that now that it was time to pay Dutton a visit, the idea was appealing enough to become necessary. No point in getting information from Dutton if he couldn't get out there and continue the hunt. And break the leash Lucifer had him on. And keep literally any fucking sketchy individual away from Nema Page.

His eyes flicked down to the pile of white towels as the distance toward Officer Smug diminished. 'Just stay alive.' White sheets and white pillows and probably white curtains; he couldn't remember, already. Just stay alive...

"Cell 305. Room with a view."

Ha fucking ha. Officer Smug and his cheeky fucking jokes. Maybe he ought to shank the shit out of him before getting to Dutton.

"Seven minutes, and that's it."

Michael kept quiet as Officer Smug unlocked the bars keeping him out of the corridor. He had nothing to say to the guy. He had the bare minimum to say to Dutton himself. Seven minutes was plenty of time; what there _wasn't_ enough time for was figuring out the aftermath. Lucifer had the perfect set up to keep him here for fucking ever, setting him loose on whoever he hated, and keeping him in line because he just _had_ to think a lot about the ridiculous front-page pictures from the trial of the century.

Stupid. Lucifer had let him see those fucking front-page pictures that painted up all his suspicions. Stupid. It wasn't his fault if it looked questionable. It didn't mean Nema was bait-worthy. It didn't, it didn't...

The ugly buzzing sound had him taking a subtle, deep inhale through his nose. He was livid but time was up; he couldn't think about what to do, anymore. Not now. Time to pay Dutton a visit.

The door slammed shut behind him. He kept his gait controlled and easy. Just stay alive. The corridor was quiet. Just stay alive...

He dropped one arm, the shiv perfectly tucked into his grip so that it couldn't cause suspicion. He dropped the clean, white towels on the floor.

Just stay alive.

"Twelve." He heard Dutton say. "Prick's 200 light. Rat-faced son of a bitch..." Counting money, but it didn't matter how light whoever was, starting... now.

Michael didn't hesitate, grabbing Dutton's cellmate-turned-crony by his stringy hair and slicing his throat right open with the shiv. One second, easy as that. There wasn't any room for a conscience; the man was in here for a reason and allying with Dutton only confirmed the guy was dirt, worth casting off into the corner of Dutton's cell. Worth casting out of his mind as he immediately went for Dutton and covered his mouth with one hand.

The only thing that made this hard was not stabbing Dutton on impulse, pushing him against the bars of his cell with the bloodied, crude blade pressed right against his neck. God knows that he wanted to. That he deserved it just for being involved in the erratic web that was the end of his family. His blue-green gaze burned harshly into Dutton's, and the fact that he saw nothing reflected back just made him that much more sure of how he felt. There wasn't fucking anything in the guy. No care, no conscience, fucking _nothing_. That Michael had let a few seconds tick by with them sharing the same damn air was more mercy than Dutton deserved. "You and me, we gotta talk." He grumbled, low and mean, ignoring how Dutton's hand fisted into the shoulder of his white jumpsuit. "Now, you make any noise, _anything_ at all, I'm gonna open you up like a bag." It took entirely too much effort not to open Dutton up that very moment. "I'll watch you bleed out all over this floor...! Now you nod if you understand me." Michael didn't want to wait for a damn nod.

Good thing Dutton's response was immediate, a very careful nod to keep from letting the shiv bite into his neck.

"Okay." He removed his hand and gently, cruelly shushed him. No reaction. Dutton's eyes were a fucking void; it made the violence within Michael flare up too bright and too hot, roughing up his throat. "Stanton massacre. The carousel hit." One corner of his mouth lifted in the briefest flash of a mean sneer. "I hear you were there."

Dutton replied with a quiet scoff. "What if I was?" He grunted when the shiv suddenly moved, shifted tighter against his skin. The very tip of it lanced against one of the bars behind his head with a warning clink. He saw the rage burn its way to his ears and turn them red, and Dutton chuckled. "You're a God damn lunatic...!"

As if Michael Castle gave a shit what Dutton thought of him. "What the Hell were you doing there?"

"Drug deal."

Shit that he already knew. Seven minutes might have been plenty of time, but that didn't mean he wanted to waste any of it on shit he already _knew_. He expected to have to cut the bastard in some nonlethal place, but he elaborated.

"I was brokering between three groups of assholes-"

Irish. Cartel. Bikers. He already knew.

"-who barely spoke the same language-"

"What happened?"

"What do you think happened?"

"Tell me who started the shooting!"

"What?"

Michael had not one fucking ounce of patience for Dutton's confusion. "You tell me who pulled the trigger; who made the order!"

Dutton grimaced against the threatening bite of the shiv. "It went south."

"What do you mean, 'it went south'?" That could mean _any_ number of damn things...!

"It _happens_."

Michael wasn't here for Dutton's stupid fucking condescending God damn tone! "What does that _mean_ , 'it went south'? What do you fucking mean?"

"It means we're not as dumb as they thought we were. We realized what it was."

Maybe if Michael gouged out one of Dutton's empty eyes, this conversation wouldn't feel like pulling teeth. "What was it?"

"It wasn't a massacre, asshole. It was a _sting_."

Finally, something Michael didn't know. It set his face in aggressive confusion, ginger brows knitting together. "A what?" He'd already had it out for that District Attorney, for Lailah Reyes, for the simple fact that thanks to her, nobody had done anything to exact justice for his fallen family. But a sting...

A sting would have meant direct involvement.

A sting would have meant law enforcement was already _there._

A sting would have meant that said law enforcement hadn't done anything to ensure civilians like his fucking family were out of harm's way.

A sting would have meant...

"My source warned me." Dutton continued, unaffected by the bewildered ire playing across Michael's features. "Feds infiltrated one of the gangs. I'm not sure which. They found out how big the deal was. _Massive_ exchange. A real game changer, but they weren't after any of us. They were after the man in charge, the man who organized the whole damn thing."

Michael pounced on the chance to put another name on his kill list so fiercely, it set his voice in growls. "Who's that, who is that, I want a name!"

"I never met him. He never showed his face. All I know is he had a line on pure heroin. Shit shipped from the Middle East."

It felt like his temple was throbbing as he committed the information to memory, like his scarred-up brain was trying to recall something, but fuck if he knew what.

"They called him the Blacksmith."

An alias, of course a fucking alias. What was it with the world and fucking aliases? Everybody just _had_ to fucking have one; he'd even had one forced onto himself. The Punisher. Whoever drummed that up first must've dislocated his shoulder, patting himself on the back for that one.

"The whole thing should've went by the numbers," Dutton continued, "but he got wise. He stayed away, and when they realized he wasn't gonna show, someone started shooting. That's all I know."

Not enough. That wasn't enough!

"I swear... to God."

Real fucking adorable how this Godless piece of shit thought swearing to God was gonna somehow save his empty-eyed ass. But Michael released him... removing the shiv from his neck, very slowly leaning away.

And then Dutton had to make it worse. Dutton had to keep talking. "I heard about you. News travels fast around here." His mouth wasn't quite smiling, wasn't quite sneering, but it was cruel enough to send the burn of Michael's hatred through his limbs. "But there were almost 100 bangers that day, and every finger found a trigger."

As if Michael didn't know that. As if Michael wasn't there to see the bullets whizzing every which way.

"You know, this crusade of yours... it's never gonna end, right?" Now Dutton was outright smiling, a tight-lipped cruel smile that almost matched Officer Smug's. "Right?"

Michael didn't give Dutton the chance to taunt him more, immediately sending the sharp, crude blade right into the gut encased by orange cloth. Watching Dutton die was anticlimactic; there was already nothing in his eyes, so there was nothing to watch drain out. Which was fine; Michael wasn't interested in making a show out of this. "Yeah..." He sneered. "Yeah, you're right." And he knew that was the truth, that the web only grew ever-larger with the more he learned. His kill list stretching like a scroll flipped open, so hilariously long it spilled across the ground. At the rate things were going, this war would stretch onward to eternity... and that was fucking fine.

All he had to do was just stay alive, then.

Michael didn't bother to watch Dutton's body drop to the floor, ready to get the fuck out of there with, sure enough, several minutes to spare. He had the information he needed. Now for the next step... getting the Hell out of prison, without any worry about the brave damn doe-eyed woman taking the heat for it. A bigger mess than the two bleeding bodies on the floor of cell 305, for sure. What was he going to do...? What the fucking _fuck_ was he going to do...?

This time his pace was faster, more determined as he strode for the door, wiping the blood from his hands with a towel he'd ripped from the clothesline strung up in the cell. Pointless, perhaps, given the little splashes of red marring the snow white of his jumpsuit. Whatever.

Michael tossed the towel to the ground and found himself damn near kissing the bars, he was so close to them... but Officer Smug and the small group of officers who'd joined him just stared back. "Open the door."

No reaction. What the fuck...?

"Open the door!" He demanded with a rough growl, but all Officer Smug did was begin turning a lever.

Michael looked over his shoulder to see the doors to every cell in the corridor sliding open, orange-clad inmates peeking out in confusion.

… Shit. "What are you doing?" He snapped at Officer Smug, even though he already knew the damn answer. Shit. Shit shit shit. "Open the God damn door...!"

Officer Smug gave him the smirk that earned him the name, and left. Fucking _left_.

"Hey. Hey!" Michael barked out in helpless aggression, eyes turning back to see the inmates beginning to file into cell 305. He should've known.

"Mr. Castle," Michael heard from up high on the second floor, a voice even but strained around the edges like it must've hurt to speak.

He should've fucking _known!_ He looked up at Lucifer with eyes gone wide in rage, wide in betrayal, but he should've known.

"Thank you." As the inmates began calling out that Dutton was dead, Lucifer absentmindedly rubbed a hand down his exposed arm. "I couldn't have done it without you."

And now that it was done, Lucifer decided to kill him. What was worse? The idea of being Lucifer's perpetual attack dog, or the reality of becoming bait for all the other rabid fighting dogs?

What was worse? The idea of Lucifer threatening to do Nema harm if he didn't obey, or the reality that if he would discard Michael this quickly, this easily, then it was highly likely he'd do the same to her if it served him?

"There he is! There he is!"

"You're a dead man!"

It didn't matter what was worse. He just had to stay alive.

Thus he turned, eyes sharp and burning, armed only with the shiv, and charged head-long into the dog fight. He let out a war cry of a yell as he damn near crashed into the first inmate, all fury and wildness, outrage at his betrayal, shiv stabbing and fist pounding.

This wasn't about finesse. Wasn't about technique. And sure as shit wasn't about honor; he just wanted everyone in the corridor dead before he died. One inmate down with a solid hit to face. The second wrestled the shiv from him, a third fucking hit him with a shiv of his own, a sharpened broom handle or some shit.

Orange fucking bodies everywhere. He heard the shiv clatter to the ground as he took the damn prison spear into his possession. Someone kicked the shiv. Someone else grabbed it. The first inmate was getting back up and by that point Michael was surrounded on each side.

Just stay alive.

Simultaneous stabbing, the stick through an inmate's gut, the shiv into his damn forearm. But it was gonna take more than that to make him pause; the pain was gasoline igniting in his veins. A rough kick got the impaled inmate away from him and bought him just enough time to rip the damn shiv from his arm. Blood bloomed out and dribbled off his arm, catching on his pant leg. Someone hit him in the head, hard enough to knock him to the floor, but not hard enough to stop him from clutching orange fabric and yanking the body to the ground.

Michael sent the shiv into the torso, punching the blade in, stabbing and stabbing and stabbing and stabbing and he had to just stay alive. He had to stay alive.

He heard steps running toward him and wasted no time in sending the shiv up to meet the orange fucking target and he couldn't help it, he had to laugh. He had to laugh because the blade pierced into the inmate's fucking crotch.

Good! He deserved it! He deserved it for being the kind of scum that had to get put away in a place like this! He deserved it because Michael knew he deserved it! He sent the blade into the guy once, twice, three times more, in a crooked and messy path up his chest until he punctured a lung. He turned just in time to catch a guy with a thick fucking rod of a stick in the damn neck with his trusty shiv – God give him his guns, but he starting to develop a weird appreciation for this crude blade – and then he tossed the body into the nearest cell as more fallen inmates rose back up, and he roared out when a body came up to him with the prison spear.

Everything was colors. Orange and white and red.

Everything was shapes. Bars and points and people.

And everything was textures. Metal and wood and bone and flesh.

Just stay alive. Just stay alive.

He broke a neck with a wild and monstrous grunt. Another shiv almost cut his face open horizontally. He punched the man responsible square in the face, turned just in time to break another man's neck.

Another fucking stick like weapon, he couldn't tell what the fuck it was because he was moving too fast and he felt feverish, he felt excited, he felt drunk on the bloodletting. He dodged the stick weapon and it clanged on prison bars like it was a hammer. A detail that wormed into the folds of his burning brain as he hit and hit and hit some more. Blood splashed up at him. Michael thought he might have got some in his mouth, but he was already bleeding from hits sustained by all these mad fucking dogs. Blood was blood was blood.

He grabbed the stick weapon and realized, in the last moment, that the other side of it was sharpened into an ax. In the last moment, he flipped the weapon around. Roared like a God damn war dog because that was what he fucking was.

The ax cleaved so deep into the skull that the bone crunched, fragmented. He couldn't pull the damn thing out of the cranium and it made him laugh, again.

A kick to the head sent Michael crashing into the corridor wall. He got hit in the face. Again. Again. Again. Just stay alive.

Just stay alive.

He dug his damn thumbs into the man's eye sockets; there was no honor, here. This was a dog fight. The man broke free, and despite his blindness, managed to land another hit to Michael's face, knocking him to the ground.

He heard the inmate groan and stand, heard the scraping of the shiv against the ground as he picked it up.

Just stay alive.

The back of Michael's hand smacked against a handle, another shiv, thinner. It would do.

Just as the inmate fell upon him, he lifted the blade and let gravity take care of the rest, slicing straight across the throat even as that sent blood spraying all across his face. And as the body dropped, lifeless, leaking red onto the center of his chest, Michael smiled. Caught his breath. Stared at the white ceiling for a split second before tossing the body off of him and just lying there, surrounded by dead bodies.

But he was so alive. Tingling with how utterly alive he was.

Michael stood, only just beginning to feel the ache of so many hits, of the wound in his forearm. His white jumpsuit was smeared over in blood, and he wore the stains like terrible badges of success. Stood there, proud and cruel and wild, as the police filed in with riot shields and nightsticks. Clacking away in a rhythm like war drums, and God help him, but he actually felt at home this way.

"Inmate!" One of the officers called out. "Fall on your knees!"

A smoke bomb was tossed his way, bouncing off a dead man's face before settling and releasing its thick white cloud. Even as it ascended and swallowed him whole, he stood until the very last moment, and as they dragged him away, he caught his reflection in a puddle of water. Maybe from a knocked over mop bucket, he had no fucking idea. All he knew was that he saw his reflection, red-smeared white. A dead man's blood leaving behind a mark like a skull, blooming across his chest.

But he was so alive.


	19. Unleashed

**The War for Hell's Kitchen  
** _Unleashed  
_ By: Brenli

What a great prison this was... let him wash up, but just put him back into the same fucking white jumpsuit he'd worn for the slaughter, merely given a pity run through the wash and dry cycles. Great. He couldn't wait to get out of here...

The sentiment played on a loop in Michael's head as he sat there, cuffed, patched up, clean fresh linens and yet forever marred in red. He had to get out of here... It wasn't a question or a vague hope, it was a necessity. Lucifer Fisk had just tried to have him killed, attempted to feed him to Dutton's prison dogs. The fact that he was alive, albeit certainly feeling all the hits and blows right now? Not helpful, he was sure. His survival merely proved how much of a threat he could be for the man with the peculiar voice. Lucifer must have been constructing a new plan, might have been sending some more people in to do what Dutton's cronies couldn't. Might have been planning to send in Officer Smug and his buddies, even. Anything was possible. He had to break out.

Michael didn't allow himself to think further than that, even if there was still... the looming threat to consider. Because sure, he'd killed a bunch of men that were supposed to kill him. That wasn't the same as direct disobedience. Therefore, the threat to Miss Nema Page was still simply that. Right?

The cell door buzzed that flat, ugly buzz – it vaguely forced him to recall a dream – and he looked up, the very act of lifting his head making his neck ache.

"Go."

It was Fisk himself, and the first thing that went through Michael's head was that he just might have meant to finish the job, himself. That he was very soon going to feel what a blow dealt by a man who could bench 450 pounds felt like... But damn if he wouldn't go up against him the second he tried. It would be like going up against Goliath, but it was worth a damn shot.

"Are you sure that's a good idea, Mr. Fisk?" Officer Smug wasn't so smug at the moment.

"Go now!" Lucifer's strained voice took a sudden turn for the loud and booming, making Officer Smug and two others jump and shrink away.

It did nothing to change Michael's assumptions, and the ache in him was already beginning to ignite. This was it. He was fucking cuffed and chained to the ground and Lucifer was going to put him down like a dog who couldn't just go quietly...

It was only when the officers stepped outside of the cell and Lucifer turned toward him, sighing, that Michael thought to make one more demand. Request. Plea. To cut Nema out of his designs. If he intended on beating him to death with his own damn fists, then there was _no_ point in threatening to do her harm. Maybe that was suspicious. Maybe that seemed weak. Didn't matter. These might be his last few seconds to speak at all.

"How quickly we turn into savages."

Yeah? Wasn't that the whole point, here? Wasn't that why Lucifer made him into an attack dog, in the first place? Did he love the sound of his own voice that much? But Michael kept the cruelty silent, feeling it heat him up all along his veins, pooling in every bruise, in the wound on his forearm.

"As if the moment we walk through these prison doors-"

"You tried to have me killed." Michael cut Lucifer's poetics with a knife stroke of a sentence.

Lucifer was blatantly unashamed, unaffected. "Yes, it would've been cleaner that way. But you got what you wanted!" His voice rose again, booming, rare, and all the more intimidating due to its rarity. "Given the condition that he was in, I assume that Dutton admitted to some involvement in your tragedy."

He came closer, looming, which prompted Michael to stand. The sound of clinking chains spilled from around him like a reminder of his disadvantage. It changed nothing. It only fueled him, like how a lion in a pit was fueled to fight whatever dropped in beside it. "What do you want?" His blue-green eyes were bruise-rimmed all over again, which only made them more piercing than normal. "Why am I still alive?" He said it like an invitation.

Lucifer crossed his arms behind his back like some regal prison King in orange. "Because plans change."

So then death was off the table... but in its place returned the old threats. Still stuck on Lucifer's leash. Still weathering the thought that any displeasing move could send Nema six feet under. It made his cuffed fists clench.

"Because if you want to survive, you adapt. Yes!" Lucifer spoke over the telltale rise of Michael's chest, his readying to snap at him. "The plan was to kill you. I needed to close that loop. I'd already made a deal with the rest of the guards. I doubled the cut that Dutton was paying them." Eyes like steel cut a glare of a path through the air and into Michael's beat-up face. "But that didn't work out, did it? No... I was wrong. That's difficult to admit, but..." He paused.

Lucifer paused, and Michael could have sworn some kind of dark and sinister appreciation warmed the chilly steel gray of those eyes.

"You have a gift, Mr. Castle."

A gift. Is that what his brutality, his cruelty, was?

"I assumed that the stories that I read in the paper about your attacks on the criminal world were apocryphal. How could one man be capable of such... violence?"

This was sounding more and more like, indeed, Michael was going back onto Lucifer's leash. The thought of it had his body tensing, readying to... attack. Go fucking nuts. Break his chains. Fight his way out of prison. Find Nema. Put her somewhere fucking safe, where assholes like Lucifer could never get to her, let alone find her in the first damn place.

Lucifer continued, though Michael definitely noted that his subtle leaning away was met with Lucifer leaning forward, just the same amount of subtlety, just the same looming amount of threat. "But then I saw it with my own two eyes. And when one comes across someone with such talent... with such a gift, well... you don't let that go to waste."

"No." The refusal was immediate, though quiet, gravelly because it had to fight past all the building fury to leave his lips. "No, you don't." He dressed it up like he agreed... because if he was honest with himself, he did agree. It was why he'd been afraid of this confirmation every day since he'd come to prison. It made sense. You find a good weapon, you keep it close and you continue to use it. You don't cast it away after firing one shot; there were still more bullets in the chambers... Yet the thought of it sickened him. Even if Lucifer was right. Even if he was a damn good weapon... this was insulting. It disgusted him far more than he thought it would, and he couldn't even rationalize that disgust. He just knew, somehow, in a way that made him think of pale gold sunlight, that this was an enormous insult to himself.

So the rage burst out of him, Michael's head swiftly swinging forward and butting Lucifer square in the jaw.

It was clear Lucifer hadn't anticipated his attack dog biting the hand that fed him, stumbling back one pace.

"How's that?" Michael couldn't help himself. Once again, he was an atom bomb dropped from the plane. There was no reversing this. "Huh? Can't let my fucking gift go to waste...!"

That was when Lucifer began swinging, each time hitting true, right in the center of Michael's face. One, two, three times, and then he grabbed Michael by his white, bloodstained shirt.

Holy shit. Holy, holy shit. Michael was seeing fucking stars, already. But even if he had to fight dizzy and blind, he was still going to do it. God, he was gonna go nuts until somebody put him the fuck _down_. He'd held this in long enough! No more! This was for treating him like a trained animal! This was for threatening to hurt a fucking beautiful brutal brave damn woman! For even thinking that was good idea!

Michael landed another hit to Lucifer's mouth before bringing his cuffed fists down, smashing the hard metal of his cuffs into Lucifer's arm. The moment Lucifer released him was the moment Michael responded with his own barrage of hits, double-fisted, metal cuffs biting into the skin of his opponent's face. Again. Again. He deserved it. He deserved it because Michael said that he deserved it!

That was when Lucifer grabbed him with a single fist, fingers curled into his shirt. Lifted him like he was a damn ragdoll. Slammed him onto the concrete platform he'd been using to sit. Hit him again. Again. _Again._

And in a move that made his damn life flash before his eyes, began pummeling him in his bruised-up gut like a fucking _beast_. Repeatedly. Michael really, legitimately thought this had to be the end. No resolution to the loss of Bal, or Jenebel. No guarantee that Nema was safe from a man this surprisingly, disturbingly ruthless. For all his pain, that was what he hinged on. The idea of Nema being at the whims of a man like this, and it set off a whole other burst of burning need to just stay alive. Just stay alive. Just stay alive...

Lucifer backed away, leaving Michael to pant through the pain like roadkill that hadn't quite been killed, yet. "Release him." He called, and Officer Smug stepped forward.

"Mr. Fisk, I-"

"Do it, now!" Lucifer bellowed, and Officer Smug wasn't stupid enough to consider protesting, again.

Sitting up was like setting his skeleton on fire, and breathing was like inhaling blood, but he did it. Michael did it as his cuffs were undone from his wrists, from his ankles. "What the Hell is this?" Speaking sent blood into his mouth that he had to swallow.

Lucifer inhaled silently before answering, cold and even, "I'm in control, now." Michael suspected he meant that in every possible way. "And I've set you free."

"What does that mean, 'free'?" Michael hadn't been beaten silly enough to just take whatever was being offered blindly. He stood, even as his body protested. Every ache was fuel. "Maybe I'll show you."

Officer Smug immediately called out in ridiculous firmness, "Stay back!"

But Lucifer merely gestured for him to stay by the door with one hand. "Because everyone warned me that prison would be an inhumane environment." His tongue flicked out quickly to stop the flow of blood that dripped from his nose, making the river of it end at his lip instead of dripping off his chin. Instead of staining his pristine orange jumpsuit. "It is. But I... I find it refreshing. The perfect microcosm of the animal world." And it showed. The man looked up at the grate-like ceiling like it was the equivalent of seeing a sunny sky. "When an animal wants something, when it needs something, other things... need to be stepped on."

"You want me on the outside so I step on every piece of shit I see." Doing his dirty work while Lucifer acted like a good boy on the inside. Clearing out his competition... "That way, nobody gets strong... and the city's yours for the taking."

Lucifer gave him a single nod. "Something like that. Yes."

"So if you can do that, if you can get me out, why not just do it yourself?" Honestly. Fucking honestly. At the beginning, when he'd asked Lucifer the same kind of question, Lucifer had briefly burst out about needing a good reputation maintained, so that he could get out in the foreseeable future. But if he could get Michael out, why couldn't he get his own damn _self_ out? Cut out the fucking middle man! Leave him alone! Which would leave Nema alone! Which at this point, was all Michael fucking wanted from the guy!

"Because I play the long game, Mr. Castle." Lucifer spoke firmly. "You see, when I'm finally let out of this cage... it won't be to wage war. It will be to win one." And he smiled, the kind of smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, though the chilly steel of them spoke of anticipation in their own way. In a cruel way. "You. You need to focus on now. I've given you a chance to walk free. To put that gift of yours to work, to find – what does Dutton call him? The Blacksmith. If I were in your shoes..."

If Lucifer was in his fucking shoes, Michael suspected he would have killed whoever was treating him like an attack dog of their own. But he would have done it quietly, and he would have waited, like a God damn spider.

"I would use this opportunity to find your justice, to... kill your way to justice. And not for me. Of course not. Not for yourself."

Was he really...

"For your family. For them."

He was. He was going to bring them up, again.

Michael felt his mouth quivering into an angry sneer, and when Lucifer turned to leave, he barked out his name like a command. "Fisk."

When Lucifer turned to face him again, his lip was pulled into a strange, subtle and chilly smile. "Yes?"

They paced toward each other, stopped when they could go no further without physically shoving each other. Wild, blue-green eyes burned hard against cold steel gray ones. "The next time I see you... only one of us walks away."

Lucifer's shoulders lifted in a silent, short laugh. "Yes, of course. I'm counting on it. You are, after all, doing this for the girl, too."

" _I'm...!_ " The word was a roar that didn't affect Lucifer in the slightest. As if he knew Michael would have nothing to say to that. As if he knew every possible attempt at a defense would sit in his mouth and mix with the blood building in there.

"She's doing well." Lucifer called over his shoulder as he left. "She has a new job as a journalist. Adopted your dog, Max. They seem happy."

Michael spat out the blood and watched it splatter where Lucifer had stood. A nasty, red liquid splotch of rage... of helplessness, because when exactly had the poor Miss become so tangled up in himself? And so what if he might have a bullet with Fisk's name on it, for her sake? And so what if he dreamt of her? So what?

Officer Smug was a lot less smug when Michael wasn't handcuffed, anymore, but he nonetheless moved in, holding a helmet and a bulletproof vest, while the others came in with black boots and clothing. "There's a car waiting outside. Get dressed. Mr. Fisk wants you out immediately."


	20. Mentors and Ingenues

**The War for Hell's Kitchen  
** _Mentors and Ingenues  
_ By: Brenli

"Mmm," Nyssa mumbled through a mouthful of life fuel, her desperately loved coffee. "Okay, so everyone's got somebody down there." She paced past one of the whiteboards, gestured to writer after writer. "Do we have _anybody_ on the scene?" God, they better. "I know we got Manus at Metro-General." She pointed at one man with her pinky, the other fingers and thumb pinching a copy of two templates. "Look, send Stantacki down to the police department, and Sarah?" She shifted, continued pointing at the woman who stood behind her. "Why don't you get to the fire department, all right?" Her green eyes finally, actually _looked_ at the templates. "We're gonna use the top one, okay?" She handed the template to another woman, a new girl with a blonde bob, who she was trying hard not to call Bob – she had a lot of workers despite the physical size of her building; it was hard to remember all the names, okay? "What are you guys _looking_ at me for?" She suddenly snapped in exasperation. "Will you just get to work?"

She was happy.

It might not have seemed like it on the outside, but she was happy.

Nyssa Ellison had never been particularly good at explaining this kind of joy. It wasn't like she _wanted_ people to get shot up, or was eager for tragedy. It was more that when terrible things happened, she needed it to be made known. She needed to shine a light on it. It gave her purpose...

It was a drive, an itch, a calling that Isobelle Urich had understood, had seen in Nyssa back when Nyssa didn't really know what to do about that need. Before the Bulletin, Nyssa largely felt a half-step off from everyone else; she felt misunderstood. It had taken Urich finding her independent 'articles' on her damn LiveJournal – damn, _that_ long ago – and reaching out to her for her to realize she wasn't so much twisted as just hungry for the truth, and that she wasn't alone. Strange, now, how she felt like the torch had been passed, and now she was where Urich was, taking a wide-eyed ingenue under her wing. Except, unlike herself, this wide-eyed ingenue had come to her, first.

And was here now, which made Nyssa stop in her tracks. "Holy shit... Nema."

Why was she _here?_ The shooting happened only _hours_ ago. No one would have faulted the girl for hiding at home and installing five locks on her door or something; the Punisher knew who she was, after all. Why was she here?

And yet the next thing she had to say... "Tell me you were there." Nyssa didn't have all the pieces, but had enough to make a strong assumption: DA Lailah Reyes had jumped at the news of the Punisher's escape immediately, calling in his legal team. Which, technically, may not include Nema now, but at the most vital time it did.

Nema's face was flushed and rosy, her pale blonde locks flowing around her shoulders as she walked in the hurried gait everyone who worked for the Bulletin used. "I was there." She seemed breathless.

Nyssa sure as Hell couldn't blame her for that. If she was there, then that meant she nearly died. Just _hours_ ago. Nema grabbed her cup of coffee, and Nyssa let her. The girl deserved coffee if she wanted it... even if it was already half-consumed coffee. "Uh, well, do you need anything? A med eval, maybe a blanket?"

"Next dumb question." Nema said as she kept walking on, forcing Nyssa to follow her.

She wasn't offended, honestly. In a strange way, she was actually proud of the backbone the former secretary was clearly forming. It's what every journalist working for the Bulletin needed; Nyssa would accept nothing less. "Wait a minute." She called out, reaching for her.

Nema paused, turned, and sighed at Nyssa.

"Was this Michael Castle?" It still felt a little weird calling the Punisher that, but it seemed to be the only thing Nema _wanted_ to call the guy. Calling him anything else had a way of making the girl's big brown eyes get sharp; Nyssa could only imagine what kinds of foul language built up in her throat.

"That's what I want to figure out."

"What does your gut tell you?"

"No!" The cry was sudden, the cry was the answer... quickly buried under Nema's waving hands and attempts to pretend it was part of a longer answer. "No, no, my gut is that last thing I can trust. I need facts."

Not the answer Nyssa really believed, largely because she knew Nema too well, by now. She was all about her gut, all about hunches. It was the fact that her hunches seemed to consistently and progressively lean toward the truth that had made Nyssa so interested in her, in the first place... But she let Nema have the cover. "Okay, agreed." For now, at least. It wasn't in her nature to let people buy into comfortable avoidance, but the girl was shaken. This would keep her head in working order...

Which was exactly what happened, and maybe her face didn't show it, but Nyssa tended to marvel when Nema was playing with puzzle pieces in her mind. It was like seeing Isobelle again, and a little bit like seeing herself. "All right. So if Michael did this, if..." Her big brown eyes darted about like looking for dots to connect. "... He's not gonna stop."

Green eyes met brown, and Nyssa saw urgency, saw fear, saw... something, like she really needed to call a friend. But first thing's first – the truth was needed, but preserving life was obviously more important. "Well, we gotta stay ahead of him, here. He took out the DA-"

" _Allegedly_."

" _Fine._ " Jesus. Nyssa knew from Nema's overarching projects on the Punisher that the girl was... weirdly, almost suspiciously intent on sympathizing with him. In some ways, she understood, but in others she couldn't figure it out, at all. Now was certainly one of those times; how could the girl both be aware that others could be killed by the Punisher... but in the same breath, insist that his very bloody hands were clean of this? "Who would be next on his shortlist?"

"Whoever crossed him."

They both knew that was as awful lot of people, and so Nyssa gave her a tired look. Yes, Nema had experienced quite the day. But if she was going to attack this, then she was going to attack this. Wholeheartedly. In true Nema spirit. That was the girl Nyssa knew.

"I'm thinking a medical examiner who falsified records?"

Atta girl. "Dobiel Tepper."

"Exactly." She was too stressed to smile, but the pride was in her eyes.

And Nyssa was proud too, but there wasn't the time to relish it. "He's probably still holed up at that shit-ass motel."

"Right. So I'm gonna go over there now."

Fuck's sake... for someone who'd had so many brushes with danger – too many to effectively fathom, many of them recorded in folders Urich had collected and shared with Nyssa herself – she certainly didn't avoid more iffy encounters. There was every possibility that the Punisher had nearly _killed_ her, yet she wanted to put herself in his path again? When they had the chance, she was going to invite Nema to get drunk on scotch with her. And then ask her what was going on in that head of hers.

But for now...

"Not alone, you're not." Was Nyssa scared? Well, shit. Yeah. She was scared because she was a sane damn person. But she also cared about a girl who was like herself, and who was like Isobelle. They were going to stick together... it was just a shame she didn't have a bulletproof vest or two. She grabbed her coat. "Let's go."

Yet they were too late, and they'd known it the moment they saw far too many police cars parked around that motel. Lights flashing blue and red, so bright it had them squinting...

When Nyssa parked, neither woman so much as unbuckled their seat belts. "... How are you doing, Nema?" She asked evenly, cautious but not coddling.

"Fine."

Nyssa looked her flatly.

"Disappointed." Nema admitted.

"This isn't your fault."

Nema nodded, staring at the dashboard with a look at once sad and determined. "Still disappointed."

"Good." Brown eyes swiveled up to meet Nyssa's green ones, and she readjusted the thick black frames of her glasses. "It means you're still human."

Nema inhaled, and Nyssa recognized it as steeling herself. She often did the same thing. Alone, with no one to see her being human, herself. "We can't waste time." She unbuckled her seat belt and hurried out of the car with sure, wide strides, Nyssa at her heels... but she paused a pace or two away from Tepper's door, and Nyssa let her take that pause. She'd be lying if she said she didn't want to pause, herself, so it was a good thing she didn't say anything.

Nyssa remembered the first time she was at the scene of a homicide, and how she faltered before crossing the threshold that would allow her to view the body. She remembered Isobelle Urich taking the plunge before her, assessing, deciding from what she saw whether or not Nyssa could handle it.

Every day it amazed her when things like this happened. When she realized she was in Urich's place, now. When she realized she was showing a girl like herself the ropes of investigative journalism. Nemaelle Page would never know that Nyssa constantly asked herself if she was ready to be what Urich was for herself. She would never know, because she deserved a mentor who was like Urich. Hell, she deserved Urich in the flesh, but that wasn't possible...

Nyssa looked into the room, and it was bloody, bullet-riddled... but nothing Nema couldn't have handled. It was sobering to acknowledge that. To remind herself that Nema had seen worse things than this... She heard the tacking sound of the girl's heels, and turned toward her. "Just one body. Shit-ton of bullets, and a whole lot of blood." If Nema wanted to see for herself, then she could. But all the same, Nyssa gave her the chance to pass on it. "All signs point to Michael Castle."

"No." Nema shook her head and suddenly moved forward. "No, no, that's not his style-"

"What?" Nyssa's brow furrowed when Nema slipped around her and peered into the room herself. Paused. Covered her mouth. "Nema-"

"This isn't his style." She whirled on her boss, pointing into the room. Her eyes were wide, insistent.

"Wait, wait-"

"No, I. I know him. He wouldn't-"

"What do you mean 'not his style'?" Nyssa raised her voice over hers because she knew that was the only way to get her to listen. "Come here, come here..." She took her arm, led her further away from the room. "Look, do you want to report the news, or do you want to really get to the truth?" A cold question, Nyssa knew. But one that Nema needed to hear, right now. "The first step is, you gotta put aside your personal feelings." She knew that sounded like an accusation. In a way, it was.

So she wasn't surprised when Nema's mouth opened wide to protest. She couldn't blame the girl. By now she was aware that some people likened her to women who wrote love letters to Charles Manson, and that was just in the office. There were bizarre people on the street who thought they were in love, or that if they weren't, then they ought to be. Nyssa steered clear from that kind of almost-hybristophilic nonsense, but even she had to admit that Nema was clearly... attached. In some way, that Nyssa couldn't quite make sense of on her own.

She spoke over her before she could get even a syllable out of her upset mouth. "I mean, about _everything_. No matter how much it hurts." Whatever 'everything' was; it could have been any number of things that Nyssa knew, or sort of knew, or didn't know at all.

Nema's eyes are a sharp, dark glare. "This is _not_ personal. I'm just saying that this does not _fit_." She gestured toward the room in firm desperation. "All right? This is just... That's just out of control...!"

"Yeah, it's out of control because Michael's a _killer_ , all right? That's chaos!" Nyssa knew this came across as mean. Sometimes you had to be mean to make a point. That... that was where she differed from Isobelle Urich, but Nyssa needed to be this way. She needed to, because now Nema was looking less like herself and more like an amazing journalist who was dead. "Whatever good you saw, whatever... you know..." Nyssa reached for the words, watched them sink into Nema. "Code of honor, that you understood... It was never there."

Another thing that made Nema more like Urich than Nyssa was her expressiveness. She could see Nema work pieces of anger out of her system, could practically feel her chewing on her words... and could also see her reject them. "You think I projected."

Nema didn't believe that for a second, and Nyssa wanted to know why. "Yeah," she said anyway, humoring Nema's weak attempt to seem like she agreed. "Happens to the best of us. Although, you know, why you'd want to see good in the man who pulls the trigger is... beyond me, but." She cleared her throat, and watched Nema shrink into herself. Looking at the toes of her shoes. Falling into silence. Yes, that was probably mean, too. But something Nema needed to be asking herself, whatever the answer might be. "Do you know anybody else who might be in danger?"

Nema's lashes fluttered as she shook herself, feeling the whiplash of Nyssa's question. "Um... Yes. His nurse, uh..." She paused, trying to remember more information. "He's a janitor, now... And there's some others-"

"Okay, okay." Nyssa nodded, suddenly encouraging. After all, any of her harshness was never malicious. "So, listen. You gotta get those names, all right? We have to hand everything we have to the NYPD. We need to _save_ as many people as we can." Nema's feelings and Nyssa's feelings notwithstanding. Preserving life came first, or else what kind of people were they?

"Yeah," Nema said, nodding back. "I've got all the files at my apartment; I can go right now." And on that last sentence, she was already turning to leave.

"Wait! Wait, wait." Nyssa strode into Tepper's room and came back with two police officers in tow.

Nema immediately recoiled, which Nyssa found peculiar. "Uh... what's this?"

Nyssa would have figured it was obvious, but okay. "They're going with you."

"... Are you serious?"

Damn it all, she wasn't old enough to feel like she was telling her teen daughter she couldn't go out without a chaperone. "Mmmhmm. Yeah. I had one last string to pull, so don't screw it up, okay?"

Nema's head shook wildly, pale hair swinging across her shoulders. "No, Michael's not gonna hurt me."

And there went her earlier attempt to act like she agreed that she'd only projected goodness onto the freaking Punisher, of all people. "Michael's a psycho killer."

"You would _never_ have pulled this condescending shit with Isobelle...!" Nema snapped.

"You're right." Most people in Nyssa's shoes would have likely snapped back, but not her. No, this weighed heavy enough to keep her steady... "And I'll never make that mistake again." Ever.

By the time Isobelle Urich was chasing her final lead, they'd effectively switched roles. Nyssa became editor in chief because Isobelle needed time to tend to her ailing husband. Nyssa had gotten comfy in her new station, and with that comfort came carelessness, came cruelty. Firing the woman who'd been her mentor for pushing too hard for an article with too many loose ends, because sometimes you had to be mean to make a point. She thought Isobelle was getting older. Getting stressed. Having a mid-life crisis.

And then her mentor died, and then the loose ends wove together into a terrible tapestry that included a mole in the Bulletin itself. She should have paid more attention. She should have listened, and she should have argued, and she should have worked with what Urich had to give her.

But she couldn't. The best she could do was not repeat history with a girl who was like herself, but who was also like Isobelle, so, so much like Isobelle. She would never make that mistake again. "Not about someone I care about."

Nema still wasn't happy, and yet the anger in her face faded until there was only sadness. Only understanding. It cut too deep, made Nyssa have to blink a few times and readjust her glasses. Nema sighed... but she nodded. "Okay."

"Go, go, go...!" Nyssa immediately shooed her away, looked at the police officers pointedly through the mist of tears in her damn eyes. She sniffed. "Get the files. Meet me back at the office in an hour."

"Yeah. I'll be there." Nema promised, following the police officers.

She sighed, pulling the pieces of herself back together. "... And don't forget, you owe me a cup of coffee!"


	21. Reunion Under Fire

**The War for Hell's Kitchen  
** _Reunion Under Fire  
_ By: Brenli

"Clear...!"

Finally.

Nema wasn't sure what to feel about Nyssa sending her off with escorts. Touched, but... bothered, just bothered. But how was she going to be able to explain that trusting the police in Hell's Kitchen was like trusting snakes, that she knew from experience, one of them making an attempt to strangle her?

And yes, of course, a bad seed does not the whole group make, but it didn't change her apprehension... or her feeling that this was unnecessary. Michael hadn't shot the DA. Michael hadn't shot Tepper.

How to explain her sureness in this? She didn't know. It wasn't how he did things. She'd poured over enough photos of the crime scenes he _did_ take responsibility for to see the difference in the gore. Brutal, yes. But where Reyes' and Tepper's murders had been a literal spray of bullets, coating the area, Michael Castle's murders were very singular in their cruelty. His aim so perfect, there was no need to wash a room down with ammo. That... and while people like Reyes and people like Tepper contributed to his pain, they weren't the ones at the root of it. He wanted them exposed, yes, shown to be the frauds they were, but his guns were meant for the kind of people who unloaded their own upon innocents like his family. Michael didn't kill people who didn't deserve it. He'd said it and he'd meant it; he hadn't lied to her...

Even so, she moved in and immediately grabbed a folder and thumbed through it, looking for the list of living persons involved in the aftermath of the massacre in Central Park. Regardless of who the shooter was, that shooter was clearly going after the people connected to Michael... and if she was honest with herself, that was the one thing that made her step back and consider the possibility. What if Nyssa was right, though the thought of it immediately made her feel sick? What if Nema projected goodness onto Michael...?

But no, that didn't... it didn't make sense for it to be as simple as projection. If she was projecting goodness onto him, then wouldn't it feel out of place in one way or another? If she was projecting goodness onto him, then what had kept him from shooting her that night in the hospital, running with Voice? It wasn't poor aim. His aim was almost too good, deadly metal whispers through her hair. _That_ good.

And that was why he couldn't have possibly been the one to shoot DA Lailah Reyes. The gunshots had been so indiscriminate. The only reason she was alive was because Uriel had pushed her down, partly covered her. Michael wouldn't do that to her... Right? But then, who else had these names and addresses, aside from him?

Maybe... maybe prison had changed him? Made him cold. Made him feel more desperate to kill. Made him sloppy. Made him stop caring about innocents. Made him stop caring about h-

"You live alone?"

God, she was unbelievably relieved to answer, to have her train of thought broken because it came from a place of unexplained... things. Feelings, and knowings. "You wanna ask me out, or you wanna wait outside?" Cruel of her, and made all the more intimidating when Max poked his head out from the kitchen area and moved into view. Smiling his adorable pit bull smile, and also making it clear he wasn't secured on any kind of chain.

But it wasn't the kind of question she wanted to humor, even if it helped sever where her head was going. Did she live alone... why? Why did he want to know? If he meant well, she wasn't interested. If he didn't mean well, she wasn't going to make him aware of what advantages he had. A terrible way to treat an officer of the law, but uniforms and badges meant so little, in Hell's Kitchen. She couldn't trust him, because she didn't know him. Hell... she wasn't sure she could trust many of the people she _did_ know.

As the police shuffled out to wait by her door, Nema hurried around her bed to gather more folders, Max following her, his tail whipping against the bed's edge. Her brown eyes glanced up and spotted one of the pictures on her bedside table... Her, and Setsuna, and Uriel. Drunk and happy. Her face always went bright red when she had too much to drink. So did Setsuna's actually, and with his green cap on, he looked like a tomato. Uriel's didn't, but he had this peculiar 'drunk face.' A loose smile, no more tension in his brow. Sad, she realized, that a face of joy registered only as a drunk face, on him.

She didn't even trust them, though she wanted to. Not with everything, not with all of herself... because she was terrified of losing them.

But now, here they were. Growing further and further apart, but maybe that was for the best. Not even running to a new state had saved her from attracting trouble, from... from bloodiness, and death. It just followed her everywhere. Maybe she was cursed.

That thought was punctuated by the sound of a heavy thud, a very specific sound. The sound a body made when it dropped to the ground, unconscious and therefore unable to catch itself. Max's ears perked up, his body stilled. Staring in the direction of her door.

"... Officers?"

Nothing.

"Hello?"

Another thud. This time Max moved toward the door, though his gait was easy and his tail kept wagging.

"Max, Max...!" Nema's voice was firm but low, and quivered with fear, with... with the entirely-too-familiar need to survive.

He listened to her, pausing, but still stood with his tail whipping around happily. Sweet pup, she wished she was that innocent.

But she wasn't, because there was no way she would have lived as long as she had if she was that innocent. She was tainted with distrust and the need to survive, which flipped a switch within her. The switch that made her grab for the nearest weapon, the gun in her middle dresser drawer, with every intent to use it. She could do it. She knew that she could, because she'd done it, before. Nema was nonetheless cautious, both hands holding her little gun as she gently stepped forward. Closer. Closer still, until she was in front of Max.

Michael Castle walked into the doorway. No bars. No handcuffs. No lines of tape to separate them, for the first time... just her gun. He had both hands tentatively raised, and his face was colored over in a wash of bruises. Max barked, moved past Nema to circle Michael's legs with glee... and Michael didn't seem surprised that she had him. How did he already know she'd found his dog? Had he been watching her place?

Yes, he must have been. It only set her need to survive into overdrive; was he the one responsible for the shootings, was he mentally sound, would he kill her, should she kill him before he killed her? A terrible thrill of pain flashed through her like heartache. She felt younger. She felt like a young girl pointing a gun at someone she cared for, as someone innocent hovered near him.

She could see Michael reading her. Blue-green eyes, rimmed in bruises; they should have looked hard and mean but they were soft. They were sad. And they were even pleading. She didn't know how she knew that, but she did. He looked sorry and he looked like he was begging her... for what? Now that was a mystery. "Shh shh shh shh..." He stepped closer, moving into the room with Max just... happily staying at his side. Trusting him.

Pain broke through the terrible familiarity of being in this position. She wanted to trust him. She _wanted_ to... "Hands on your head, Michael."

He took another stride forward, and she cocked the gun.

"I mean it."

"It wasn't me."

She could feel her heart jumping and her gut churning because she knew, she knew, she knew... "Hands on your head or I will _unload_ this thing, I swear to Christ!" She was almost proud of how fierce she sounded, just then.

His bruised eyelids lowered as he stared at the barrel coming ever closer, aimed right at the center of his chest. "Nema."

Her breath came out in an audible rush; she was at once both scared and wild. The only other time she'd ever heard him say her name, it was to tell her she didn't know him. It had come straight from his mouth. If that was the truth, then why did she ache with believing him? And why did fighting that ache just make it hurt, more?

He looked back up, their eyes meeting. God, he looked so sad. A tired kind of sad. It made her feel guilty. "Miss, it wasn't me."

But she didn't know him... he'd said it, himself. Right? "Do it." She insisted, though she could hear the wavering in her resolve. The way her demand ended in a soft gasp of a breath. She didn't want to do this... She wanted to welcome him back to the world, as imperfect and corrupt as it was.

She could see the way her two words struck him. Punching into him like verbal artillery... and she wanted to take it back, the guilt rough and familiar even though she hadn't squeezed the trigger. She wanted to take it back.

"Okay..." Michael said so softly, any hint of gravel was gone. "Okay." He did as she demanded, hands resting on the back of his ginger-red head. "Hey..."

God, he was consoling her. Not necessarily a remarkable action in itself, but when she responded with another shaking gasp of breath... it just felt like he knew. There was no way he could possibly know, but it felt like he did. Like he knew this reminded her of terrible things she didn't want to repeat, but would if she had to.

His head suddenly turned to the side, realization playing across the bruises on his face, but all Nema could hear was the pounding of her heart in her own ears. "Max, down!"

There was no time to process his command. One moment she was standing with a gun pointed at him, and the next she was on the floor, gun torn from her grasp, with Michael on top of her and Max belly flopped by their feet.

Bullets. For the second time today, she was being shielded by a spray of bullets, shattering the glass of her windows, tearing up her curtains and her bed sheets, piercing her apartment walls... and yet she was covered.

Every part of her. His legs braced outside of hers, shoulders hunched over her, arms curled around her with one hand on the crown of her head, and his chin tucked over her. He'd turned himself into a shell of a man, and it was strange, because she wouldn't have imagined he could surround her so well. Uriel was considerably taller than him and goodness knows that he hadn't quite been able to cover her as perfectly, though she didn't think it was fair to compare a blind man's skill at protecting her with that of Michael's.

Her hair was a mess; she couldn't see through the pale strands of it. She just heard gunshots and her breathing and his breathing. Her heartbeat and his, that's how closely they were pressed together. Or maybe she was just hyper-aware... After all, this was the first time they'd ever touched each other. Maybe phrasing it that way sounded intimate... maybe, maybe. But it was still the truth; they'd never so much as shaken hands, before. Circumstances hadn't allowed it, and yet they'd connected with their words. With their eyes. With just knowing. And it had been enough, which made this feel... she didn't know how to word it. Excessive, but not bad. Overwhelming. Reminding her of how alive she was and how alive he was.

Maybe it was just adrenaline?

The gunshots stopped, and his head lifted, but his hand remained. She hadn't imagined his touch would be particularly gentle, but he brushed her pale gold strands out of her face with a delicateness that was... actually, needed. Her breath came in frightened gasps, and her own hand, which had curled around the top of her head to protect herself, moved until her fingertips tapped against his. His fingers moved over hers, and she felt calluses. His touch was still tender. "... J... Jesus... Christ...!"

Max's dark, wet nose suddenly appeared; his fat, pink tongue licked across her face. Wonderful.

"You believe me now?" Michael said dryly, the rumble of it echoing from his chest into her back. His breath brushed across her ear. She shivered from it.

Wait.

"I believe you...!" She spoke in gasps, blinking up at him... and it felt so good to say it out loud. It felt so good to know it. A relief, like thinking otherwise had only been forced upon her by doubt, or by other people. "I believe you...!"

Her heart was still thumping wildly from nearly dying a second time in a single day, adrenaline making it hard to focus... But she almost thought she caught a pink-red wash flare up from beneath all his bruises. "Okay." He turned his head, again, checking that the assault was truly over. "You gotta get out of here." He finally moved off of Nema, and her skin suddenly felt too exposed despite her clothing. Like walking out of a hot shower and suddenly feeling the chill of the air. "Stay low. Go, stay low."

"Get his leash."

"Where?"

"Draped over the desk chair."

"Got it." And she felt his hand travel from the nape of her neck, where it had stayed, down her spine...

It lifted away when it reached her mid back, and Nema's face felt like it was flaring hot... But there wasn't any time to think about this, to dissect it. They had to get out of her apartment, her and Michael and... his dog? Her dog? Their dog?

Once they were out of the apartment building, he was shoving the other end of the leash in her hand. "Stay here."

"What?" Nema's brown eyes were wide as a doe's, blinking fast enough to make her lashes flutter. Did she imagine that rush of red to his black-and-blue face? "I can't, I-"

"You can and you have to." He didn't release her hand until she curled her fingers around the loop. "Thank you. Had so much going on, but he's been on my mind." He looked down, rubbed the top of Max's charcoal gray head, making the dog seem to melt into a half-scrunched pile of smiling pit bull.

Nema managed a smile that felt light and shaky on her lips. "He missed you, so much."

"I missed..." Michael sighed, whipped his head around. "I have to go. Stay here. The police will be here any second. Take their protection." He paused, blue-green eyes holding the gaze of chocolate-brown ones. "... Tell 'em what you need to."

So strange, to still be saying so much with their eyes alone, even though there were no more barriers between them. "You're safe."

"... Holy shit." She watched a smile stretch across his bruised-up face. Wide and... amused. Happy. "That's my line, why the fuck are you saying it?"

God, she'd been shot at _twice_ in one day, been put through an emotional wringer of conflicting doubt and faith... but she sniffed, tilting her chin up in mock-arrogance. "I'm saying it because it's the truth."

He shook his head at her, and that smile faded with a sigh. "I have to go." His mouth opened. Shut. Opened... but whatever he might have wanted to say stayed locked within him, and he carried it away as he hurried into the nearest alley.

"Michael...!" Nema called, Max letting out a single bark in unison, but he didn't stop. Couldn't afford to stop, the telltale red and blue flashes of light finally beginning to reach her. "Just stay alive, okay?"

His boots crunched to an abrupt halt, his shoulders suddenly... tense, though she didn't know why. But there wasn't time to ask, and Michael left, letting the shadows swallow him whole.


	22. Shut Out, Reprise

**The War for Hell's Kitchen  
** _Shut Out, Reprise  
_ By: Brenli

"And the man who blindsided the two officers, you couldn't tell if it was Castle?"

Nema sighed, exhausted, and spoke with her eyes shut. "Like I said in my statement, when the shooting began, I hit the decks and stayed there." Not a lie. "I didn't see anything." Okay, a bit of a lie.

"Smart... Powell, I think we're good. Go ahead and pull your car around."

The officer left, and it was then when Sgt. Niddhegg Mahoney suddenly unwound, groaning. Nema couldn't blame him for feeling that way, and quietly, distantly asked, "Are you okay?"

"It's been a long night."

Yeah, tell her about it. But as she cradled her cup of coffee, she realized she could use this moment to her advantage. "... Have there been any developments?" Was Michael still at large, did they have any clue where he was? She should have hoped so. Instead, she hoped not, and she couldn't help that feeling. Michael wasn't responsible for these latest shootings, and Nema had never wanted him in jail, in the first place. She'd only ever wanted him free.

No cuffs.

No prison bars.

No lines of tape.

"Besides making sure Castle's face is plastered across every TV channel and newspaper?" Oh, Niddhegg was particularly disgruntled; she could hear it in the grumble of his voice. "The DA and the medical examiner are dead, the same asshole takes a shot at you, and so far _nobody_ in this entire city's seen a damn thing! I'm..." He paused, realized what he was ranting to her. "I'm sorry. That wasn't very professional..."

Nema consoled him with a shake of her head. "No. Like you said, it's been a long night."

"We'll nail him."

She hoped not.

"Until then, I'm just glad you agreed to accept police protection."

Yeah, well... there was every possibility she wouldn't have, but Michael told her to do it. Anything that would keep her from getting shot at again... though such protection left him free to go hunting. The truth of it settled into a heavy lead knot in her stomach. "... I appreciate the offer."

"All right, the car's outside. Powell and Reed will escort you to a safe location." Niddhegg said as they both stood. "We'll keep someone posted outside, 24/7."

Ugh. Nema tried to disguise her discontent with a sleepy sigh. "Right."

"If you remember anything, _anything_ , you know where to find me."

She didn't give a verbal goodbye. Too tired. Too stuck in her thoughts. The best she could give was a nod in farewell, and when she exited the room, one of the police officers gave her Max's leash. He was tired, too, was likely missing his cloud of a bed and the squeaky mallard duck toy that he liked to grab by the head and shake around. She checked her phone, read the latest text message. "Is it all right if we stop by my boss' place, first? She's agreed to babysit my dog for a while."

"That's fine; we'll need to make it quick, though." She assumed this was Reed, seeing as Powell had been in the room with her while Niddhegg questioned her, and this man wasn't him.

"That's fine." Nyssa appreciated promptness and was generally far too busy for idle chatter in the first place; the only reason she was even at her house was because she was hung over. She'd apparently had too much scotch while 'writing and thinking.'

'You'll understand when you've been a writer long enough.' Nyssa had texted, before Nema asked the favor. Nema wasn't sure if she _wanted_ to understand.

Down the steps she went, with Max right at her side, both of them heavy-lidded. Nema was so tired, she hadn't immediately realized that there was a man standing at the corner of the crosswalk they had to go through.

Hadn't realized it was Uriel.

Maybe it was sleepiness or maybe it was stress, but Nema felt a bit like crying. This was terrible. She used to adore this man; it shouldn't have taken her a very long 30 seconds to realize who she was approaching. He was too tall, too distinctive, and they had too much history.

When she noticed the police officers slowing slightly, beginning to study Uriel, she spoke up. "Sorry, he's, uh... Can you give me a minute?" The officers slowed even more, slowed to a stop. "Thanks," she said absently, and continued to close the distance between her and her... ex, her friend, her ex friend, she didn't know, anymore. "Uriel."

"Nema." It almost sounded like a question, coming from his lips.

"... What are you doing, here?"

"You have a dog, now?" Uriel could hear the patter of paws and the tink of collar tags clinking against each other.

"... Yeah," Everyone at the office already knew about Max, and they weren't even particularly close friends, or even really friends at all. Yet Uriel knew nothing about the pit bull, who was suddenly tugging forward and sniffing at Uriel's cane. "His name is Max; he's a sweetheart."

Uriel looked like he wanted to say more, or like he wanted Nema to say more. But what else could she really say? Should she tell him Max was Michael's dog? He looked like he was _waiting_ for her to say it... But how could he know? He couldn't see the dog; even if he could, it wasn't as if he'd ever been anywhere near the dog. Maybe he'd heard things. At this point it didn't surprise her. She wasn't instantly recognizable, but those who remembered her face, remembered Michael Castle. Remembered weird details like how he had a pit bull, because details like that were aired for the public during the trial of the century.

Uriel sighed.

Nema felt like she let him down... and that only prompted her to ask again. "What are you doing here?" A little harsh this time. A little mean. But she was tired of feeling like she disappointed him.

"Mahoney reached out." The frown on Uriel's face grew, firm and upset. "Someone shot at you?"

Wow, he cared? No... no, why was she being so bitter? It was sleepiness. It was stress. It was how he kept pushing her out, and how when she told him she was done, it wasn't as if he ever tried to reach her. Not even to say 'sorry.' "Yeah, it's... It's okay. I'm fine."

"Why didn't you call me?"

God, he was so sincere. Worried. Upset that she hadn't contacted him, and... she almost wanted to cry. More than that... she wanted to slap him. What, now he cared? It took getting nearly riddled through with bullet holes for him to take initiative and reach out to her? A chuckle left her lips. Hurt. Mean. "Would you have answered?"

She saw the verbal blow sink into him, his jaw set, his frown deep and plainly hurt. But he said nothing... and she was tired of that silence.

"Look, Uriel, I know that you mean well, but I can take care of myself." She gently tugged on Max's leash and began to lead the dog to the crosswalk, but she only got one pace into the road.

"No, you can't, Nema...!"

She paused. Turned, even as Max pattered about in confusion as to whether they were stopping or going.

To Uriel's credit, he looked desperate. She knew him well enough to know that when he felt a lot about something, he'd start tapping his cane on the ground. Not the usual searching sweep, but an upset stabbing, like every tap punctuated his point. "Not if Michael Castle wants you dead. _No one_ can!"

"You're right!" Nema suddenly snapped, poor Max letting out a little whine. "You're right! Michael's dangerous, and maybe I can't handle this, but I don't want your help!"

"What's going on with you?" Uriel rose against her words. Actually fought with her, for once. It felt like something had changed in him, but Nema didn't know what. "What are you holding back?"

Everything. She was holding back everything, because she'd had a taste of what his rejection felt like, and that one taste was enough. She stepped forward, her patent leather heels stabbing at the ground, Max not quite following her. When she felt the weight pulling against the hand holding his leash, she felt her breath come out in a hiss. Heated. Outraged. At least Max kept her from reaching out and slapping him... it gave her the half-second she needed to drop her voice to a moody murmur. "Michael didn't do this, okay? Matter of fact, he saved me." It felt so good... so good to say that out loud, to say it to Uriel. Like she could use the truth as weaponry to liberate herself.

She watched the surprise travel across Uriel's face, dark brows lifting before creasing together in confusion. His mouth opening and uttering an astonished, "What?"

This felt like revenge, and she didn't know why. Because Uriel himself wanted Michael locked up. Because Uriel himself went from basically abandoning her to swooping in and insisting she needed to be saved. "He was at my apartment last night, and if he hadn't been watching the place, I'd be dead." Why did that feel like dealing him a personal blow?

But Uriel took it in stride. Processing. Thinking. Trying to understand why a man like Michael would do such a thing...

"Except the cops have it all wrong." Nema continued, by this point whispering. "Michael didn't kill Reyes. But whoever did _knew_ that Michael would take the blame, and what do you know? Every cop in New York City wants the Punisher's head on a stick." Saying the alias was like swallowing soap, making her lip curl, making her voice hiss like it was spitting.

Uriel gently inhaled, brow still furrowed behind the dark lenses of his glasses. Nema took it for barely digesting the truth, though more than anything he was conceding that this was messier than he first believed. It was easier to think that Michael Castle had lost it, that the man who thought all the people he killed needed killing... just wanted to kill anyone even loosely tied to him, now. But easy wasn't always the truth... and Nema was telling the truth. He could hear it in her heartbeat, even if it thumped a little faster than usual. It wasn't the quick nervousness of lying. It was something else. Anger. Something. So he stopped fighting her, at least in this thing. "You told this to the police?"

"No."

And that was the truth, too, and it made his own anger creep over him. "Great! Lying to the cops. Smart, Nema..." She was going to get herself hurt at this rate, casting off security, opening herself to... to what? Vigilantes like Michael? What did she see in him that made Michael seem safe? Uriel didn't know. The Devil of Hell's Kitchen didn't know.

Nema's face had gone red, Uriel knew because he felt the heat coming off her in waves. Could hear the shudder of the inhale she tended to take before she began snapping. "But that's _my_ problem! Not yours! Michael thinks he can find this guy faster than the NYPD, and honestly? I agree with him!"

Uriel sighed that disappointed, patronizing sigh of his, yet again.

"He saved my life and he asked me for time, Uriel. I owe him that much."

No, Nema didn't owe him anything if it was going to aid him in killing yet another person, but Uriel got the feeling that pressing the issue was going to get them nowhere. It only reminded him of Nema in his apartment, insisting that right or wrong... Michael's way worked. "Not saying that I'm going along with this, but if Castle's not the shooter, who is?"

Nema sighed so heavily her head nodded, and he could hear the whisper of her hair slipping over her shoulders. "Everything points back to the Central Park sting. That's where everything fell apart. What Reyes mentioned."

"The Blacksmith?"

"Right." She nodded again. Another silken whisper of her hair. "Michael has a source in prison. Turns out the DA was right, that the Blacksmith arranged the meet."

But it still didn't quite add up... "Why would the Blacksmith come after you?"

This time, she shuffled from foot to foot. The question was flat, almost accusatory. She wasn't sure if he meant for it to come across that way... "I've been working with Ellison at the Bulletin."

And sure enough... she didn't need to see his aimless, blind eyes to feel the judgment in them. His posture said enough, shifting, straightening, making him that much taller and making Nema feel small and... and stupid. "Yep...! Yeah, that'll be it. When? When did this start?"

"Ever since the trial." It was like admitting to one's father that she'd been stealing cookies – or animal specimens, but she supposed that was something unique to her childhood – for the past month. But she was tired. She was so tired of Uriel making her feel like she was wrong, or like she didn't know better, she was _tired._ "When I was trying to find evidence for the Castle case."

He stared at her. It didn't matter if he was blind. He stared at her like he was condemning her, and maybe he was... He couldn't believe her propensity for flirting with danger. He would have thought the entire mess with Union Allied was more than enough, for her.

"We were looking into the Central Park shootings, and I guess we're getting too close..."

"Then you need to back off." Uriel's voice was firm. Final.

And Nema would have none of it. "No, Uriel. _You_ need to back off!"

"This is not a _game_ , Nema! This is dangerous!" Why couldn't she see that? Why didn't she even care? It boggled Uriel's mind...!

"Right, well so was working at Nelson and Murdock! I...!" She stopped.

All Uriel wanted was for her to keep going. To talk to him. To unlock whatever part of herself she was very obviously hiding away... but she didn't. He heard the fluttery heartbeat, the shuddering breath, the gentle sniff, the rustle of her sleeve as she covered her mouth. She was fighting tears... Was it that hard to talk to him? Had he alienated her that badly? It wasn't what he meant to do, or wanted.

Nema spoke on an upset sigh. "The cops have offered me protection and I'm taking it. So you don't have to worry, I'm... I'm fine." She heard Max gently whine behind her. "Look, I'm gonna... I'm gonna go."

"I'm gonna come with you-"

"No!" She cut him off with a fierceness that felt like knives in his face. "No, Uriel...! I'm not yours to protect."

And Uriel couldn't help the bitter, cruel thought. Oh, she wasn't? Yet she used to practically sigh around Daredevil. Used to, when he looked out for her and intervened when trouble tried to swallow her whole. Under normal circumstances, it should have been him who saved her last night, too... but he hadn't been there. Should he have thanked Michael, then? The Punisher, who thought the people he killed needed killing, who was out there, trying to find the next person to permanently end?

He realized that he should have, and didn't know what to do with that revelation. Differing viewpoints notwithstanding, the plain truth was that Michael had saved his friend... even if it was a friend who no longer wanted anything to do with him.

He heard Nema's heels clack away, the pattering of dog paws alongside her. Michael's dog, the Punisher's dog, but she'd refused to tell him that. He knew only from word of mouth; from Doll Temple, who'd heard it from Setsuna. A ridiculous game of telephone when she should have been able to easily tell him – yes, she'd adopted Michael's dog. But she couldn't.

She wouldn't tell him hardly anything, anymore.


	23. Pit Stop

**The War for Hell's Kitchen  
** _Pit Stop  
_ By: Brenli

"Room's been checked; it's clear." Officer Reed said with a flatness that didn't inspire much confidence, handing Nema her hotel room key card.

But... honestly? That was good. She didn't want either him or Powell to be all that vigilant. It wouldn't work for what she needed...

"You need anything, anything at all, we'll be just outside." Powell assured her.

"Okay, thanks." Nema said quietly. "What I need is about 12 hours' sleep..." All three of them offered each other a weak, polite chuckle, which made her that much more desperate to get away from them.

She made like she was about to close the door.

Waited.

Powell and Reed stepped into the nearby elevator.

The elevator door slid shut.

… And she was out of there, taking her hotel room key with her.

She checked her phone for her most recent texts... a number she hadn't saved into her contacts just yet.

'We should talk. - Dreamsicle'

'Wait are you really choosing to go by that?'

'Helped you recognize me didn't it? - Dreamsicle'

'STOP USING THAT NAME'

'Where are the police stashing you? Get away from them when you can. Meet you outside. I'll bring a car.'

'How did you get my number?'

'How did you get any of my info? Meet me. Please Miss.'

'Fine. I'll get you the address when I know it.'

'Thank you Miss. - Dreamsicle'

As she took stairwell A down to exit the hotel, she rolled her eyes, stashed her phone back in the pocket of her pea coat. Smiled. Nema couldn't believe he actually remembered that... and she couldn't believe that recalling time spent talking to each other while he was cuffed to a table, wearing that horrible orange jumpsuit, was akin to remembering the good old days.

That was enough to make her smile fade. If those were the good old days, then what was the present? Going to meet a man who wanted to kill other men.

Bad men, granted.

But...

As she neared the exit, her faded smile had become an outright frown. It wasn't like she had any right to treat him with reservations; he wasn't the only one who'd killed, here. And at least he had only ever killed terrible men, she couldn't... She couldn't really say the same. Belial Wesley? Yes. Morally twisted, even if shooting him still haunted her; he was going to kill her if she didn't kill him.

But there was also- wait a minute.

… What the Hell?

Nema didn't allow herself to pause for too long before beelining to her own car, humming in the dark, Michael sitting in the driver's seat with his head back, listening to Stealers Wheel. He'd thumbed through the cassette tapes, Isobelle Urich's cassette tapes...

As Joe Egan sang about clowns to the left of him and jokers to the right, she opened the door to her car and sat with a dry mutter. "You said you'd bring a car, not steal mine..."

"This is a good song."

Nema settled in and looked at him, bruise-rimmed eyes shut. Michael's smile was light, but... distant.

"We used to sing along to stuff like this. Had a bunch of mixtapes like these ones; I'd get really into it. Can you imagine me doing that?" He looked over at her, and his smile was so tender, blue-green eyes rimmed in dark but so lit up that it broke her heart.

It broke her heart to suddenly tap the stop button, right at, "Here I am, stuck in the middle with you."

"I inherited the tapes with the car." She spoke more to the cassette player than to him, resting her elbow against the car door, her temple propped up in her palm. She stared at the tape, fighting the urge to take it out and toss it into the glove box. It wasn't Michael's fault. It wasn't like he knew that she drove a dead woman's car, and even now hadn't found it in herself to take certain things out of it. Like Isobelle's cassette tapes.

"Hey..." His voice grew a little gruff, but somehow that felt a bit comforting... and a bit more heartbreaking. He sat up straight; Nema wasn't looking at him, but she could hear the leather of the driver's seat as he shifted. "Look, maybe you don't wanna be here, hmm?"

Her head whipped back to look at him, trying for a little bit of fierceness, but she felt like she came off scared. "Gotta say, I'm having second thoughts. I'm not a lawyer... I'm not protected by attorney-client privilege. Lying to the cops, that makes me an accessory." And yet she'd done it, at the time. Freely, easily. It wasn't as if Michael Castle had threatened her into it.

When they stood outside of her apartment building, he'd simply told her to do what she needed to.

"Okay." He spoke to the steering wheel, nodding, but with every nod the features of his face grew... somber. Even dejected. Bruises making the set of his jaw, the curve of his frown, the sadness in his eyes all the sharper... "So, walk away. Go." He tried hard not to look her in the eye. Fought it, though he felt the cuts-like-a-knife brutality of her gaze. Because Miss Nema Page had a point, and maybe...? No, definitely. Definitely, she would be safer not associating with him. Wasn't that why Lucifer Fisk decided to use threats against her to lure him in, to leash him?

But the cutting feeling persisted in the silence of the car, and he knew she was waiting. God, he had never forgotten how brutal she could be – even in his dreams, she was brutal – but he'd forgotten how to conduct himself around such brutality. So different from fists and bullets. More dangerous than those things.

So he looked at her.

And for all her ferocity in explaining herself, those chocolate-doe eyes were pleading in all their sharpness... Scared. "The Blacksmith already tried to get me once. I _really_ don't wanna give him a second chance."

Even her fear was brutal; he could feel it shaping the features of his own face. Ginger-red brows pinching together, concern turning into a frown. Michael glanced back at the steering wheel, his left wrist propped up on it, and his trigger finger tapping against his right thigh. "He's not gonna get it." He meant it. The promise of it was a low rumble, sealed with an honest gaze he turned upon her...

Which was a mistake, because apparently the weight of such a gaze sent her blinking in a flutter of lashes, nodding, looking down at her lap before turning her doe eyes back up at him.

He hated himself. He hated himself for constantly being reminded of a fucking _conjugal dream_. Something that wasn't real. Brain fodder that he desperately needed to forget. But even as he began driving, the memory of lash-fluttering remained. Was that something she actually did, when she was about to...?

Whoa.

No.

How dare he even let his mind go there, considering who he was and what he was setting out to do...?

They drove in silence for a part of the route to his destination, nothing but the hum of the car, the jostling of stop and go, red and green lights in the dark... but he was fine with it. Being alone for so long meant making friends with silence, and in any case, this silence wasn't particularly lonely. Yeah, fuck him for enjoying her company. He was a grade-A piece of shit and he knew it -

"So you said we should talk."

He glanced at her, and she was staring at the cassette tape still sitting in the player. Strange... like staring down a threat. She'd looked like an agitated version of this when she had a gun aimed at him, but he figured they were – stupidly – past that. They were in her car, a mobile little station of familiarity. Right? Or was she just always this way, when she wasn't fighting like Hell for a cruddy guy like Michael God damn Castle? "We're gonna. When we get there."

"... Get where?"

"There's a little diner that's open 24/7. Figured we can have coffee, unwind." It wasn't until he said it that he realized how it sounded...

And of course, Nema Page was too brilliant and too playful to not comment on it. "Oh, so you're taking me on a date?"

Michael's brain fucking scrambled, and stealing another glance hadn't helped, because she was looking at him. Chocolate-doe eyes and an amused smile. Was he mortified or just relieved she wasn't acting like she was trapped in this car, anymore? Both. Definitely both. He cleared his throat and kept his eyes on the road as he shot back, "Pretty sure your lawyer boyfriend would push as hard as he could for the death penalty if this was a date, Miss."

The pause was long and he could damn near feel her inhaling before she spoke. "We're not together, anymore."

And then they were back to silence, and Nema didn't really know what to make of it. It shouldn't have mattered to Michael, after all. He was only ever a client, she was only ever the secretary to his legal counsel. Who had offered a lot of legal counsel. Who had fought for him, to the point of snapping in his defense even when at odds with her 'lawyer boyfriend.' Who had discovered she was somehow able to speak to him with glances and gazes, alone.

Which meant that she likely wasn't hiding anything from him, right now. Suddenly the quiet grated on her senses, and she tapped the play button. Allowed Joe Egan to sing about not knowing why he came here tonight.

"You don't have to do that, Miss."

"You like the music. I'm fine."

"No you're not, Nema."

It was going to take some getting used to, hearing him say her actual name and not simply calling her 'Miss' every moment. It wasn't terrible, it just seemed like it meant something. "... It's like I said. The tapes were inherited with the car, so." She wondered if that said enough.

And then she felt stupid for wondering, because of course, with a guy like Michael, it said nearly everything. "I'm sorry for your loss."

She looked at him in what she hoped would be an unnoticed glance from beneath her lashes, late night street lights illuminating the profile of his face in flashes as he drove. So, so bruised up... it made her hurt. "She was a writer for the Bulletin... I doubt you've ever, you know. Actually remembered the names of any of the people writing the articles. But her name was Isobelle Urich. She was... a mentor and a friend." And damn near like a mother to her, a parent sorely needed in what was supposed to be a shinier new life in New York, but it had been riddled with dark from the start and grew dimmer, still...

"Guess that's why you've been following in her footsteps, these days?"

"... I never told you about my new job."

Michael was already mentally berating himself for making such a rookie fucking mistake. He didn't _need_ any more signs that this brave damn woman easily undid him, but here they were. He blinked. Made a big show of checking the road.

"Your contact. The one you told me about. They have eyes on me?"

Yes and no? It depended on who she was suspecting – the one he'd gutted, or the one still alive?

"... Michael, is this what you were wanting to talk to me about?" The shifting of car leather, the hitching of breath.

"You're safe." And he meant it, he swore it so firmly that his voice rumbled with the promise of it. "You got that? And no, that's..." He wasn't sure what he wanted to talk to her about. This wasn't even... actually about talking. And that made him a shitty fucking person.

He considered telling her the full truth, while waiting at a stop light. It was what she wanted. For him to not lie to her, not ever... And he was in agreement, at this point. Hiding things from her was not only hard, it left a nasty taste in his mouth. Michael couldn't explain it.

"That's how you knew I had Max, too, isn't it?" She asked quietly.

"Yeah..." If they were talking about Lucifer Fisk, then yeah. "And thank you for that, again. I mean it. Though I have no idea how you found him."

"'How did you get any of my info?'" Nema teased him, voice dropping to a rough grumble.

He felt the smile crack across his beat-up face. "Aren't you cute?" What the fuck... He cleared his throat as the light went green and tried very, very, _very_ hard to pull all his attention toward driving.

Nema lightly scoffed, continuing to watch streetlights play across his bruised face. "If you think sleepless girls with dark circles under their eyes are cute, sure."

Michael shrugged. "You gonna talk to me about dark circles, Miss?"

"Not the same thing." She huffed. "Though I feel bad. All that bruising, it looks painful..." Yet that didn't stop her from reaching out, from nearly tracing her fingertips along a deep purple curve beneath one eye. Like touching the darkness of them in photographs tucked into his files, it was reflexive. She didn't know why.

She only paused when he flinched, like the very moment her fingertips met skin, he was branded by her. "Been through worse things."

"Is that supposed to make me worry less?"

"You don't think that's exhausting at all? Worrying about some asshole who keeps barreling into fights, in the first place?"

Nema didn't answer right away, because so much of what was on his face conflicted with what he said. Like _he_ was worried. Surprised. Scrambling... Pushing. Like in the absence of handcuffs and prison bars and lines of tape, they needed something put between them. Like he was... scared. "I think you're grossly underestimating me, Michael."

She could tell from the too-quick blink, from the nervous tic of his tongue briefly wetting his lips that her words had struck him. As guilty as that made her feel... it was still what she wanted. It still comforted her. Nema knew when she was being pushed away – God knows, she was too familiar with the feeling thanks to too many times Uriel had done that to her. Had left her banging on the metaphorical door with both fists, screaming, and not receiving anything back.

She wouldn't stand for being pushed away, yet again. Not like this. Not by him, after all they'd been through – even if it was from between handcuffs and prison bars and lines of tape. _Especially_ because it was from between all those things. "It's okay to have people who are worried about you."

"No it isn't." Firm. Unforgiving. But his eyes said otherwise, even if they were trained to the road and not to her.

"If you really believe that, then why am I here, Michael?" If she snapped, it was only because she refused to have him treat her the way that Uriel had treated her...

"Because we have to talk!" He rose against the sharpness of her words, and it was what she wanted. It was what she needed. A real response. A real fight, with her, for her, something. Even if it was heated to a critical point. To a nuclear meltdown. She needed things this way...

"About _what?_ "

"I don't know!" It was the truth. It was a horrible confession. He was dangerous and her meager association with him _already_ put in her trouble – in the crosshairs of the Blacksmith's gun, under the too-watchful eye of Lucifer Fisk – but he was the one who tracked down her number, who asked to meet with her, who teased her in texts and in person because that was as easy as breathing. Who did all these things even with his shitty fucking ulterior motive, but he knew she was going to survive this because he'd accept nothing less.

And then she had the nerve to sympathize with him. "I understand that..."

God. He really hoped he was going to Hell for this.

"It's like. Too many things, swirled together. Right?"

He sighed through his nose because... Fuck. She was right. It had been like this since the day she burst through an arbitrary line of red tape and metaphorically punched him in his damn face. Some kind of chaos. They had no hope of sorting through all of it. "Nema..."

"But I think that we can make sense of it, if we try. If we actually, you know, work together on it."

No they couldn't. No they couldn't. No they couldn't. "Stop now, Miss..."

But she didn't. She saw his words for the shut door it was, and she opened it. More like kicked it right off its God damn hinges, with her shiny patent leather shoe. "Did you know that there are people who think we're dating?"

His foot pushed too hard on the accelerator, causing the engine to rev, causing his brain to flip upside down, causing him to hit the brakes too hard, causing the car behind him to honk angrily.

"Does that reaction mean no or yes?"

It meant both. It fucking meant both. He thought this was just a Lucifer thing; that he must have been bored in prison and dreaming up some ridiculous idea that the big bad Punisher had eyes for a sweet little secretary. Even if, okay, maybe...

But other people? What, like the _public_ 'people'? No. There was no way. "Your lawyer boyfriend in this weird group?" The grumbling helped him focus as he resumed driving.

"I doubt it, and stop calling him that. I told you, we're not together, anymore." Nema wasn't sure why she felt the need to repeat that. The earlier silence said that he'd heard her, understood. He spoke in sarcasm more than anything else. She would've said he seemed bitter, even, if it wasn't for his attempts at getting some kind of barrier between them. What did he want? Maybe he didn't know. That was fine, because she didn't know, either.

"Sorry, Nema..."

Dejected. Even if he wasn't looking her in the eye, it was obvious. What did he want? "Don't be." Nema settled a little more into her seat, crossing her legs.

"When did this happen?"

Why did he want to know? It wasn't until she answered him that she realized the implications of it, the implications he suspected. "The day you botched the trial... But it wasn't-"

"I bet it wasn't."

"You're not the reason why things ended!"

"Want me to drop in on him? Have a chat?" Michael couldn't tell if he was teasing or genuinely meant what he said.

She suddenly touched him, gripping his arm. "Don't you _dare_."

Focus on driving, focus on driving... "You did all that fighting for me while he was a fucking no-show and then he dropped you? I dare, Miss-"

" _I'm_ the one who dropped _him_ , Michael! If you want to have a 'chat' with anyone, then I guess that means it has to be me."

But that only made it worse. Made it feel even more like he'd had a part to play in the end of them. Because he was the one who'd spent all that time with her. He was the one fucking... talking to her with his stupid eyes. He was the one who kept reaching out to her, even when he tried to keep her carefully separated from him...

Of course, of course even his silence told her everything he was thinking. "Yeah, okay. I guess your whole case was the catalyst. The final straw or something. I'll give you that." Nema reasoned, but her eyes cut like a knife and her words still punched into him like bullets. "But it didn't have to be. Does that make sense? If it wasn't your case, it was going to be someone else's. Some other major case, that was going to weigh on him, and cause him to cut me into two pieces. Girlfriend Me and Secretary Me. And he wasn't going to have any patience for Girlfriend Me and he was going to be cold to Secretary Me, and when I inevitably started arguing about it, he was going to become some unshakable mountain of a person. Unreachable and judgy. This didn't happen because of you. This happened because of who he is and who I am."

As Michael drove, he had that look on his face, again. Conflicted. Surprised. Scrambling. "... Don't you... I don't know. Don't you think you should fight harder if it's what you want?"

"You're not listening to me. It's not what I want."

Another too-quick blink. Another flick of his tongue against his lip, lightly wetting it.

"What you're saying I should do is demand that he change fundamental parts of who he is as a person. I don't want that. I don't want to force something out of rock, I don't have the patience. I want someone that actually... moves with me. Who reacts when I argue. Who knows what I feel, because I know what they feel. I want something that just _is_ , that's just, natural."

"I can't."

It was only two words, but they said everything, and they both knew it. "... But you could. Because you already have been. We both have."

Michael was going to end up crashing this fucking car at this rate, and for the sake of her life, he quickly swerved to the nearest curb. He was sure he was in a red zone. Whatever; it was better than smashing into the car in front of him.

"I'm nervous, too."

His trigger finger began tapping the steering wheel.

"There's nothing about this that's easy to say out loud, or reason with. I don't know if there's even a word for..." Their eyes met, blue-green and brown, as she gestured between the two of them. "This. And if there is a word, I don't care about learning what the word is, right now. All I know is that you always seem to know how I feel and I always seem to know how you feel, and it's strange but it's also... the easiest thing I have ever had, in my life." But she didn't want to talk about all the things she'd had in her life, she didn't. "And I think... I feel... that we deserve that."

"I don't deserve that." He'd lost all the good things he'd ever had and he sure as shit didn't deserve any other good things...

"You do." She reached out, closed her hand around his and stopped his tapping trigger finger. "You've done terrible things; that doesn't make you a terrible person. You deserve peace."

She may as well have been beseeching him in his God damn jail cell, again...

"I don't know what peace is, anymore." Quoting that ridiculous conjugal dream tasted bitter.

Her doe eyes gently swept downward, and the heat touched his beat-up face because he knew she was looking at him, not beyond him. It made him feel stripped bare...

Nema's lashes lifted, her gaze so gentle yet it cut like a knife. "Then let me show you."

She touched him.

The brave damn woman touched him, her hand bold as it suddenly... grabbed him, cupped him perfectly, exposing him for being too tense, too taut... fuck. Too hard.

"Fuck it." Michael suddenly shifted back into drive, only so that he could sloppily, hurriedly rush around the corner and hide the damn car as deep in the alley as he could get it. He threw, more like punched, the poor gear shift into park.

They unbuckled their seat belts, the click sounding in perfect synchronization. He'd meant to adjust his seat, move it back to give her room, but she slid on top of him easily... well. Not without a few clunks, her shoe kicking against the driver's side door, the heel of the other catching on an empty cup holder. When Michael leaned forward, it was to do three things: take that damn shoe off, turn up the music, and kiss her. All three happened at about the same time, the music turned up too loud, shoe off, music turned down too quiet, kiss. Attempts to readjust the volume with one hand, while the other moved up her spine, tangled in her hair. She accidentally bit his lip, but they laughed and they kissed and they even gasped. Even whimpered, the both of them.

Clunky. Yeah... this wasn't quite the conjugal dream, where everything melded in perfection. And yet that was fine, it was just a reflection of themselves – desperate and unsure. It wasn't bad. It was just... actually real.

It was also actually in a car, which for all anyone's praises, wasn't an easy place to have sex. But it was all they had, and they would make it work. Kisses, fevered. Touches, shaky-fingered and frenzied. In the act of yanking off her pea coat, her elbow smashed against the car horn and sent an ugly honk into the dark.

"Fuck!" Michael threw her coat against the windshield. "Careful!" But a laugh formed between kisses, his, hers, theirs.

"You be careful...!" Nema playfully, breathlessly retorted as she fumbled and finally, aggressively undid his belt, the button of his pants.

Zippers were tugged down, his fly and the back of her dress. Skin to skin, somehow she felt softer than he had imagined as his hand moved in a caress along her spine. He meant to unclasp her bra, but only got one hook undone before he suddenly jolted, wide eyes rimmed in bruises.

A hand wrapped around his length shouldn't have had that effect on him, but her hand was so smooth, and soft, and warm. Her grip was tight.

Michael's shock put a pause on their kissing, but it was no less... intimate, because all their shared gazes were intimate. Blue-green and chocolate-brown. Marveling that this was happening, already too far in it to stop. It had been so long since he'd known another's touch; he had to take a moment to just relish the confident pumping of Nema's hand.

Her free hand reached back and clumsily bumped against his fingers on their way to her bra clasp, which suddenly made him shift gears. He grabbed that hand and pushed it away, but somewhere in the middle of that his fingers tangled with hers... and ended up smacking the car horn, again.

"Sh-shit!" He released her hand, but she laughed, bright and warm as the sun.

"Are you gonna do it, or am I?" Nema's smile was playful as she re-threaded their fingers together and kept stroking him.

Michael's answer was a kiss as his free hand finally undid the final hook, unclasping the bra. Logic would indicate the next step would be to pull the top of her dress down, strip her of her bra, yet they stayed that way for a moment, as 'Take it Easy' by the Eagles turned to Ohio Players. Fucking 'Love Rollercoaster.' It certainly _felt_ like a bit of a damn rollercoaster right now. Chaotic. Senseless. But there was nothing to be done but embrace it.

It took reaching down and pulling her pumping hand away to finally undress her from the waist up; Nema clearly didn't want to stop touching him. So much so that even as he tossed her bra against the passenger side window, her hips moved forward and dear, sweet God have mercy. He could feel the heat of her core through the silk of her panties, rubbing up and down. The action sent her head tilting back to release a moan just barely covered as the band sang, "I wanna ride!" and Sugarfoot Bonner replied, "A crazy ride, girl!"

Jesus Christ, Michael was never going to listen to this song the same way, again.

They began fumbling again, unspoken, just panting as he yanked his pants further down his body, as she hitched up the skirt of her dress and attempted to pull that silk down. A bit of a futile task with so little room. She leaned back, her legs clumsily spread, but she was so beautiful. A mess, like he was a mess. But beautiful.

Her underwear somehow got stuck around her shiny patent leather shoe, and a helpless sound left her throat while she tugged at it... but removing it was so, so far away from his mind. She was in his lap, even if awkwardly so, legs spread, exposed. The wetness of her was glistening even in the dark, and it tore down whatever little pieces of a wall were left. Fuck handcuffs, fuck prison bars, fuck lines of tape. Fuck anything that ever kept them at a distance...!

So Michael grabbed her tugging hand and held it tight. An aimless kiss didn't reach her mouth, but landed between her breasts; they simply weren't aligned correctly. He couldn't even enter her, but the hard length of him pressed against the slick flesh and rubbed, slipped. Searching, so desperate they cried out even from only that much. The needy thrusts had them leaning-

 _Honk. Honk. Honk._

"Fuck, fuck...!" They were like stupid fucking teenagers, right now, and they both knew it. It had them laughing, breathy and embarrassed, but... comfortable in that embarrassment.

"Hang on..." Nema gasped out and began another clumsy shifting of position, one that had her pressing her bosom against his face, but he certainly didn't seem to mind. Michael only kissed the soft flesh, thumbs playing across her nipples – a little darker than he had dreamt, not so much petal pink but rosy – and then buried his overwhelmed cry into her cleavage.

She only descended partway down his length, halfway, before she braced herself and paused, her own cry strangled with a gasp.

Their eyes met, his full of concern. A question, an 'are you hurt?' Yet hers were more surprised than anything else. A fast blink was the response, lashes fluttering and making his chest ache.

She didn't need to verbalize it, but chose to, anyway. "It's just been a while..."

One part of him couldn't believe it. She was too beautiful, she was too sweet, and she was just playful enough to make men at least give an honest shot at getting her attention.

But the other part of him was only... pleased. Dangerously, possessively, monstrously pleased. "Good." The word was a dark rumble that made her clench ever tighter around him, and that was when he eased her all the way down.

It had been a while, but she warmed up quickly, slower and more relishing thrusts regaining the momentum of their earlier frenzy. Clunky, the toe of her shoe knocking against the car door and his boots at times kicking at the brake. Kisses and music muffling their groans, Ohio Players giving way to The Doors. Details that were only logged away because he'd spotted the lights of a cop car in the rear-view mirror, hurrying down the street, past their dark alley. The moment had made him thrust faster; fingers getting tangled in her pale sunlight hair because he refused to let anyone or anything take this moment away from them. They deserved it. She was right, they deserved this...!

Nema suddenly tucked her head against his neck, and she fit so... perfectly, despite how full of awkward moments this time together had been. "I'm gonna come...!"

It became a hitched and murmured chant against the pulse of his neck, she was gonna come, she was gonna come. So she was the type to announce her orgasm... Not what he anticipated, but the shamelessness of it had him shuddering. His hands pushed her, cupped her bright red face in his hands. "Look at me..."

And she did, great big chocolate-doe eyes full of arousal and bashfulness. Another lash-fluttering blink had his toes curling, but more than that... Surprise lit up in her eyes, the surprise of orgasm, and she jerked in his lap. Mouth open in an 'o', eyes half-lidded, cheeks bright red, but she looked him in the eye because he'd told her to.

He'd wanted to last longer, he'd wanted to put his conjugal dream to shame with reality, but holding her gaze as she crashed and burned only pulled him along with her. And it did feel like car crashing, like burning, like coming to life. The pulse of it moving through his body from the inside, out...

And then it was over. Her head nestled back into the perfect, puzzle-piece kind of place where his neck met his shoulder. Heartbeats thundering heavy enough to practically feel them beating against each other. Her breath fanned against his skin in pants and sighs, and he saw his beat-up face in the rear view mirror. The red of post-coital exertion added to the purples and blues and blacks of his bruises. His lips parted as his fought to catch his breath. His gaze, sated. Jim Morrison sounded very loud, suddenly. Crooning in a haunting way, "And our love become a funeral pyre... Come on, baby, light my fire..."

From the mirror's reflection, and through the mussed, pale strands of her hair, Michael saw Nema smile. "At least the Shaft theme didn't start playing."

He watched the smile crack across his face. It was natural, instinctual, yet seeing it on his reflection felt like looking at a stranger. "Is that on there?"

"I don't know. I'm both curious and afraid to find out." Her laughter was breathy, still weak from reckless sex.

So, so reckless...

"Are we still going on our diner not-date?" Nema teased, and from the mirror he saw her looking up at him. Big brown eyes half-lidded, crinkled fondly in the corners, so playful, so sweet...

Sitting up straight and easing her off of him was like shoving a grenade where his heart was supposed to be. "Yeah... yeah, we have to go." They didn't have a choice, exactly.

Well, maybe a lot of people would have said they had the choice.

But Michael didn't. He had to do this, which already made him a shitty person... and then he had the nerve to fuck the poor Miss in her own car.

He was pretty sure he deserved to die, now. "Hey..." Michael looked at her while hurriedly fixing up his pants.

She didn't say anything, because they both knew she didn't have to.

"I'm sorry."

Nema snorted out a little scoff as she finally got her panties untangled from her shoe and began slipping them back on.

"I didn't have protection, Nema." And that was just scratching the _surface_ of his idiocy.

"I'm going to go on a little toiletry run in the morning, anyway. I can get the morning-after pill, too." She put on her other shoe and grabbed her bra.

"This was reckless."

"I know."

"It can't-" Her fingertips pressed against his lips, silencing him, and she said nothing.

Nema just looked at him, with chocolate-doe eyes that cut like a knife. Shameless. An utter lack of regret.

And despite himself... he bowed under her brutality, shoulders slumping. Kissing her fingertips.

The reaction was what she wanted, clearly, turning away from him and holding up her messy hair. "Zip me?"

As Michael took care of her, the mood of the mix became strangely cheery. Van Morrison, singing about his brown-eyed girl. Michael could only pause, only listen while Nema buckled herself back in and flipped down her visor so that she could begin combing her fingers through her hair.

She looked over at him, eyes as warm as melted chocolate under the sun, fingers working through pale gold tangles. Saying nothing, because she didn't need to. She thought they were at peace, at least for now, even if he was shaky and unsure about it.

He kept his eyes on the road as he backed out of the alley, and continued to the diner.

Continued with his plan.


	24. Brutal

**The War for Hell's Kitchen  
** _Brutal  
_ By: Brenli

Nema bounced a little on her side of the diner booth, brown eyes shifting about. "Not so sure stopping is such a good idea..."

The bliss had already subsided, which only added to her nerves. Maybe it would have been better if they just kept driving. They could talk and drive, right? That actually seemed nicer, now that she thought about it. If they kept moving, then they couldn't be caught. Very appealing – they could be a pair of fugitives, taking off into the night and not letting anything catch them, or catch up to them.

"You're not hungry?" The grumble came from beneath the brim of a black baseball cap.

The grumble saved her from the direction her thoughts were taking. "No, not really." Her gaze darted around like a cautious deer. "... You don't think the neighborhood's a little sketchy?"

"Oh yeah. I'm shaking in my boots." Michael's reply was dry, but his bruised smile kept things warm. Teasing. Funny, he seemed to tease a lot more now that he was free. As Nema gently, quietly found herself laughing, he raised one hand to signal the waitress. "Ma'am? Just get a little black coffee over here?"

"So you do call people Ma'am." Nema mused.

"'Course I do; why wouldn't I?" He countered, bruise-rimmed eyes seeming so lit up, even beneath the brim of his hat.

Her shoulders lifted in a shrug. "You always call me Miss, so I figured that was your version of Ma'am."

Michael scoffed. "You don't look like a Ma'am to me. You're definitely a Miss, though." His smile seemed to fade as hers grew, like she stole the comfort from him. "Anything new from the cops?" Better to keep things away from the warmth he felt radiating between them. Shit. He never should have turned into that alley and parked...

The question had her rolling those doe eyes in a big circle. "Just that they want you dead."

"Yeah." He shrugged it off; it was obvious news. "How about that DA? She have anything on the Blacksmith?"

"Only that he's moving an unprecedented-" She jumped at the sudden clatter of too many utensils crashing into a sink.

Yet it wasn't a simple jump of surprise, it was... strange, like how people who'd survived gunshots might flinch at the sound of a car backfiring, like it reminded her of something. Just another piece to lay beside all the other ones he'd noticed since interacting with her without barriers – Nema eyeing a tape like it was a threat, Nema aiming her little gun at him with the knife-cutting glare of intention.

But he said nothing. It wasn't his place to be concerned. It wasn't his place to care...

"... Unprecedented volumes of uncut narcotics into Manhattan." She continued, the bit of red in her cheeks revealing her embarrassment.

He let her carry on, gaze shifting out of the diner window to briefly note the cars passing by. "How's he doing it?"

"That'd be the mystery..." Nema sighed, watching him glance out of the window, again. "There's an unfinished highway on Long Island that was illegally used as a landing strip in the '90s..."

Michael's eyes narrowed in scrutiny, but it would take more than that for her to drop an idea.

"I mean, it would require payoffs, bribes-"

"This guy's a ghost. He works alone, or close to it." He shook his bruised head.

"How do you know?"

"I just do." He noted passing cars again.

Nema watched his trigger finger begin to twitch in nervousness, in agitation. It made her want to reach out and smooth his fingers flat, like she'd done in her car... She cleared her throat. "Okay, so... what, that leaves us with railroads, shipping lines, trucks, maybe?"

The waitress came with Michael's requested coffee, the pause button to their conversation. "Hey, thank you." He was careful to keep his head turned down, the brim of his hat keeping his beat up face hidden, but his voice was warm, grateful. Kind. A clash against the cruel parts of him, but he was unapologetically both.

"How 'bout you, hon?" The waitress asked.

"Sure, yeah." Nema said absently.

"Anything else right now?"

"You know what, I'm gonna need about as much black coffee as this place can pump out, so just keep it coming." Michael allowed the waitress to see his bruised smile, but nothing more than that. "Thank you."

"You know that an excess of coffee can be bad for your health, right?" She softly, tentatively teased him.

"That right, Miss? But here you are." He tapped at her mug, already partway empty.

"I needed to make room...!"

And he couldn't help it, he had to laugh. It rumbled in his gut, at once both deep and bright... and... and strange, like it belonged to someone else. This was too good a feeling for him to have.

"You laugh, but at least mine will taste better than yours, now." She said as she twirled a spoon through the liquid, mixing creamer and sugar until her coffee was almost beige.

"If you say so." Michael smiled through a teasing grumble. God dammit, God dammit...

"I say so." She took a long, relishing sip, chocolate-doe eyes turning a warm smile of a gaze upon him.

Such a gentle look was too brutal for him to behold, and he looked at his coffee instead. Bitter black, not the saccharine beige of her drink or the chocolate brown of her eyes.

"You didn't seem surprised that I owned a gun."

True. Her owning a gun hadn't so much shocked him as made him... honestly, strangely proud. Assured that she took measures to keep herself safe, even if in that moment, it meant aiming at him. Michael supposed the recollection would have sobered most people, but it only had him chuckling. This brave damn woman... "I guess the only thing that surprised me is that you didn't plug me." So many others would have, on the spot.

But this time, her smile was weak, her lashes dropping over her eyes as she fiddled with her cup of coffee. Another puzzle piece to file away; she hadn't found that very funny...

"You pick it out yourself?" He asked as he idly picked a tiny packet of creamer from the small basket and busied himself by tapping at it with his trigger finger.

"Why?"

He met her gaze and held it, which was an easy feat when he allowed it to be. There was no discomfort in staring at her eye to eye; perhaps they'd done it for too long. "People who don't know shit about guns usually go for something shiny. You know, something with a... with a fancy grip." He found himself grinning, and she responded in kind. "There's always the asshole who gets the big hand cannon that kicks like a mule and they're too afraid to use it." Their laughter was shared, blended; he hated himself for thinking it honestly sounded nice. "But... a .380 shows thought. Maybe it's not your first rodeo."

She could tell from the light scrunching of his nose, the gentle tensing around his bruise-rimmed eyes, that it was a thought cropping up in the moment. That it was him thinking out loud. That it was him... trying to figure her out. "... Maybe it isn't."

Michael didn't need to know that she intended to take hints like these to her grave. He didn't need to know she was telling him things she could not for the life of her imagine telling anyone else. Not Setsuna. Not Uriel. But somehow it felt safe to tell him...

"Almost took the shot." True, but she was so, so happy that she hadn't.

Nema watched the smile crack across his face; she realized she hadn't seen him smile this often, before. "Did you?" The chuckle seemed to rumble from him and into her as she watched the bits of light glow from behind a wash of bruises. "And, uh... can I ask you why you didn't?" He lifted his coffee cup, abandoning the packet of creamer, but he didn't take a sip just yet. He just... smiled, warmly. No amount of bruises or shadows from the brim of his hat could take that away.

She almost wanted to scoff at him. What an unnecessary question. They had sex on the way here and he wanted to know why she didn't shoot him down? "... Because I believe you." She supposed that said more than the typical truths. That it fit far better than saying something like she was drawn to him, she was attracted to him, she felt sympathy for him. More than all those things, she trusted him. It meant more than he'd ever know.

She watched Michael look away with a reserved chuckle of a laugh, though his gaze turned to his coffee, to the window. His hands grabbed the packet of creamer and his trigger finger started picking at the paper film on top. A mix of nervousness and... joy. And that was all she wanted for him, that was all he deserved. That was all anyone who'd suffered deserved.

The warm wash of a car's headlights slipped across his face and seemed to steal that joy, and it was terrible. He set down his coverless packet of creamer and was suddenly sober-faced, his trigger finger twitching. He tried to disguise it as idly stroking it across the back of his other hand, but he wasn't fooling her. Nema still marveled over it, how they didn't know each other and yet knew each other better than anyone else. "I don't like what you do. And ultimately... I think you probably belong in jail."

His gaze returned to hers, at once stricken and... accepting. Yet the moment she said so much, she seemed stricken, too. Michael could see it move across her face, her brows gently pinching together, her lips hinting at a frown, her eyes. Those melted chocolate eyes. Full of conflict and regret...

He lifted that little packet of creamer and gently began tipping it into his coffee. A single drop descended and spilled into the bitter darkness of his coffee, gently brightening it, turning it brown like chocolate melting under pale sunlight. It was enough to make him set the creamer aside and feel betrayed by his own actions... God help the poor brown-eyed girl sitting across from him, because she was choosing to get involved with a wreck of a man.

And then she made it worse. "But you... you're honest." Her gaze was gentle and cut like a knife and he distracted himself with a sip of coffee colored just like that gaze. "You never lie to me."

Michael almost came clean just then. He'd been through all kinds of torture, but this guilt took the damn cake. How dare he do this, how dare he use her for- Just. How dare he use her at all, in any and every way? Fucking her in her car, even though he was still grieving and she was newly-single.

Well. She said she was newly-single. She'd dropped her lawyer boyfriend in the middle of the sting of loss, and in the middle of struggle. It was easy to leave people when things got rough; it didn't mean things were actually over. "Does he?" The question felt like a bullet that he sent smack dab in the middle of her face. He hated it. He hated her no-show lawyer boyfriend who made her feel cold and alone, but at least that man hadn't ever put her in crosshairs or plotted to use her and fucked her _while_ putting that plot into motion. And at least he didn't sling exes at her like artillery, and cause her to look at him like he was a speeding car and she was a doe in the road.

He hated her no-show lawyer boyfriend, but he definitely hated himself, more.

"... Who?"

Michael felt the guarded pain of her gaze like knives flaying his skin off. "Come on. Let's not do that." If there was anything he knew, it was that prolonging the moment of impact wouldn't do this doe of a woman any favors. The crash was coming. He was sending it her way. It hurt and it was needed, he just... he knew this was needed. "Your lawyer boyfriend. Murdock."

Her brows furrowed, again. Her deer-in-the-headlights look turned into a hard, sharpened-knife glare. Her jaw set firm; the impact had come.

And Nema burst through the dust of it to retaliate. "We're not together, anymore. I won't tell you again."

So they were gonna go to war about it, then. Michael was twisted enough to want to kiss her for it; that was his brown-eyed girl.

Wait. Fuck.

"That why you're not together anymore? He in the habit of lying to you?" More verbal bullets.

"Yeah...! Yeah, he is!" Her voice was controlled, but only enough to keep others out of it. Nema definitely wished they were still in her car, now. They could pull over and she could scream at him for this. Why was he bringing Uriel up? It was over! She was done trying with him! And if she had to guess, he was certainly done trying with her! A beautiful woman with dark hair and ink-black eyes in his bed. Not fighting the end of their relationship. It couldn't get more over than that! What did she have to do to get Michael to stop hinging on it? "He's got issues; it's complicated, like most people. Hard person to get to know. I just think that inside he's-"

"You love him, right?"

"No." She hoped that single word was an atomic bomb, wiping out absolutely everything!

But she should have known it would take more than nuclear warfare to stop Michael Castle. He merely scoffed at her. "Yeah, let me rephrase that. You love him, admit it."

"You can't know that." She buried her rage with a short laugh.

"I'm sorry, can't know what?"

"You can't know whether or not I love him!"

"Come on." His chuckle was like reloading ammo. "We're in court, all that shit going on, and it's all over your face. You can't hide that. You love him."

Nema opened her mouth, chocolate-brown eyes looking less like melting and more like bursting into flame.

"Ma'am...!" Michael suddenly called out, raising his hand. "Just a little bit more, thank you."

She couldn't believe him... he even used the damn _waitress_ as a weapon in the arsenal for this argument. Trying to throw her off. "I might have... feelings for Uriel. And some of those feelings are love."

"Mmm-hmm." Michael grumbled... but he seemed angry about it, the bruises accentuating the moody, tense muscles of his face.

Well then why try and push an idea that pissed him off, so much? "But it's like loving a friend who's an addict. It's not healthy. It's frustrating at best and heartbreaking at worst. It's a swirl, it's a lot of things. Like ingredients, but all of them put together don't make what you're insisting I feel. I love him, but not like a lover. I can't. I'm not equipped to handle it."

Michael listened and buried his panic behind bruised-up, nose-scrunched looks of scrutiny. Like loving a friend who's an addict? He wasn't sure skipping along to a killer and a fugitive was any type of improvement. The waitress came forward with a fresh-brewed pot, and he latched onto the opportunity to try a different angle, try _any_ angle. As he held up his cup he asked teasingly, "Ma'am, can I ask you, do you guys always serve bullshit here or is that just her, huh?"

Miss Nema Page waited, eyes burning mad as the waitress refilled Michael's cup, and he took the time to add a single drop of creamer and gently swirl it about until it became brown as a Hershey's kiss.

He took a sip before continuing. "I'm sorry. You were saying?"

She was about ready to slap him, bruises be damned. "Are you finished using people as walls?" He wasn't fooling her. There were no more prison bars or handcuffs or lines of tape. He was finding things to place where all those once were.

"That what you think I'm doing?"

"I think you're doing what Uriel did to me because you're scared."

Michael scoffed to hide the fact that it felt like she'd drilled a hole in his head and filled it full of napalm. How did she do that? That was why he needed to keep her away from him. He never should have asked her to meet him, never...!

"And whatever your reasons for being afraid, I think this approach is pretty fucking disgusting, Michael." Her eyes cut like a knife, her words were salt in the wounds. "Really? You're going to dig up all the crap I've had to go through lately with Uriel and tell me that's the person I love? Like I can't tell when I've reached a dead end? You want me to keep on hurting myself? Uriel's the kind of man who hurts people. Not like you, not physically, but he... he damages them. Breaks them."

He tried his hardest to act like she hadn't infiltrated his base and torn it to the ground. To hide it behind a shrug, and a scoff, and a mean reply. "Sorry, is that supposed to mean something?"

"So those are the people that you get out of your life!"

Then why the fuck was she clinging onto _him?_ "Is that right?"

"Yes!" She hissed lowly. "So how about being straightforward the next time you want to push me away, and not trying to force me on an ex who hurt me?"

"That's not-!"

She said nothing; only glared back. Blinked twice, to get rid of the thin glimmering line of upset and angry tears in her doe eyes.

Going to war with her on this was a mistake. He had no hope of winning; he shouldn't have even tried. "Look..." He felt like tying a little white flag of surrender and waving it. This wasn't what he wanted. He didn't know _what_ he wanted, but it sure wasn't this...

"I'm looking."

Yeah, he knew. He could feel the way it carved a big hole clean through his chest. Brutal... "I might... generally be considered out of my skull, so this might not mean much. But this could be the craziest, most batshit thing I've ever heard in my life. People that can hurt you, the ones that can really hurt you, are the ones that are close enough to do it." He knew. He knew too well... "People that get inside you and... and..." Fuck, even his own words were out to get him. Why was this happening? He couldn't, he _couldn't...!_ "And tear you apart, and make you feel like you're never gonna recover. Shit...!"

She listened. She just... listened, though her face still wore the wounds of all the verbal artillery he'd rained on her. But Nema only hurt because she allowed him to hurt her... How could he make her shut him out?

"I'd... I... I would chop my arm off right here, in this diner, just to feel that one more time for my wife." Something about that felt at once both like honesty and like a lie, but the dust of their argument hadn't settled, so he couldn't pick it apart. All he knew was that he'd loved Bal, he'd loved his wife and by the time she was bleeding in the grass behind him, he hadn't been able to take her to bed. That was all he knew. "My old lady, she didn't just break my heart. She..."

Nema's face softened as he spoke. It both relieved him and hurt him.

"She'd rip it out, she'd tear it apart, she'd step on that shit; feed it to a dog. I mean, she was _ruthless_. She brought the pain." Yeah, oh yeah, Bal had been brutal, almost as brutal as Miss Nema Page.

Fuck.

"... But she'll never hurt me again." He needed to get it together. "You see, I'll never feel that." Why did that put a bad taste in his mouth, like spitting out swear words or lies? "You sit here, and you're all confused about this thing, but you _have_ it."

The poor Miss had leaned forward for most of their conversation, ready to leap into the fight, but now she was sitting back, lashes casting shadows over her cheeks as she stared at her coffee. A subtle, physical submission.

It was his only shot. "You have everything, Nema... so hold on to it. Use two hands and never let go. You got it?"

"... I got it."

He should have been happy. This was her listening to him and playing along, this was her choosing anyone but him. Just in time for the warm wash of headlights again, the ones belonging to the same car that had passed far too many times... this time, parking. He should have been happy, but Michael only felt hollow and sore.

Nema's lashes lifted, and her eyes cut like a knife. "But if I have everything, it's not with Uriel."

He felt like screaming. The headlights shut off and the car doors opened.

"I'm not asking for everything, either. I don't know what I'm asking for, Michael, I-"

"You need to go in the back." Yeah. Oh yeah. He was a real piece of shit for ending this here, and for being glad that violence saved him from... from... from something.

"What?" She blinked, doe eyes back to darting about because she saw the warning on his bruised face.

"You need to go in the back and get the waitress. Tell the cook and anyone else who's back there to find the biggest piece of stainless steel and you get under it. Go now."

"W-wait, wait, what's happening...?"

"The Buick. It's rolled around the block a few times before it pulled up."

"Who are they?" The flighty doe in her was promptly replaced with the fighter, steeling herself, getting all the answers she could.

"Just some guys who are about to walk into a diner for the last time."

"You wanted them here."

There it was. The truth of his motives, laid out bare. His plan, the reason for picking her up in the first place. The truth at once both set him free and caged him, put him at the mercy and brutality of Nema Page.

"You parked me outside like _bait...!_ "

"You need to go."

Her glare was wide, hurt, angry, incredulous. "... You're such an asshole."

"Yeah..." Truer words had never been spoken. Maybe _now_ there would be no more bursting through barriers to get to him... "You got that right."

Oh, she was seething, but had the sense to know there wasn't time to continue their verbal war. He hoped, as she hurried away to get the waitress, that by the end of this she wouldn't want to put in the energy, anymore.

He also hoped the ache of such a wish would eventually end.

The silence was loud as two men walked in, clearly searching, but by that point there was only Michael. He took off the cap and tossed it onto the table, revealing the ginger-red hair he'd kept hidden beneath it.

The men zeroed in on him, but he didn't give them even a second of time to process who they'd walked in on, immediately pulling out his gun and firing.

The closest man immediately crumpled against a bar stool. Oh, yes... Shivs were wonderful in prison, but God give him his guns.

Both men were smart enough to be armed, themselves, the crumpled man sending a shot toward the back of the diner, where Nema was hiding, and for that he deserved a good sharp pistol whip to the face before punching two more bullets into his gut.

Michael tossed him aside; he hadn't gotten a shot on the second man, yet, and figured he should before he sustained any gunshot wounds, himself. But first thing's first, he needed to get that God damn shotgun out of his hands.

The shotgun man had a similar idea, and when they clashed it was to grab at each other's' gun-wielding hands. The shotgun fired haphazardly into the ceiling before he pushed away from Michael, yanking his pistol from his grip and giving him no choice but to dive over the bar before the shotgun fired, again. He was just barely missed, a left out plate shattering before the shotgun man leapt over the barrier. There wasn't the time to cock his gun, and he had resort to smashing Michael's already beat-up face with the butt of it. As if that could possibly be enough to quell him, the man people wanted to call the Punisher.

His hand closed on his throat and squeezed hard, hard enough to make the shotgun man choke, hard enough to make him drop his weapon. Which was good... if anyone was going to be wielding firearms in here, then it was going to be Michael and Michael only. But the disarmed man fought hard to break his grip, and succeeded after sending his knee into the Michael's gut once, twice.

Michael didn't give him the chance to recover, immediately striking him and stepping past the shotgun, keeping it behind him. A few hits sent the disarmed man stumbling away, who crashed against yet another table and desperately threw a – what the fuck, a bottle of fucking ketchup? - at him. Easily dodged, because really... what the Hell? Another few good hits in, and Michael had him pinned face down on the nearest counter. Two solid punches crunched against the disarmed man's head before he broke free, blindly grabbed at a container of cookware and came up with a knife, wildly slashing at the air.

But this was old news, knife fights. Shit, this couldn't hold a candle to the prison corridor. Michael made moves to try and disarm him again, but when he passed the coffeepot... well. Improvising with a coffeepot was definitely better than improvising with a fat plastic bottle of ketchup.

He grabbed the coffeepot and shattered the glass against the man's head, covering him in blistering hot, bitter coffee. The man screamed, blinded and scalded, and couldn't protect himself from the sharp, broken handle of the coffeepot getting stabbed into his gut, over and over and over. _That_ was how you do a knife fight... but dammit, he wanted his gun.

The crumpled man began a torturous crawl toward the pistol Michael had lost. He listened, like the waitress listened, like Nema listened, to the terrible squishing sounds of multiple stab wounds, but right when he was about to touch the gun with one blood-smeared hand, Michael's shoe stepped on his wrist. He groaned, in pain, in dismay, while his partner's hands shook over his stabbed gut.

Michael took the moment to catch his breath, which came out ragged and monstrous as he calmly reached down, grabbed his pistol, and dragged the crumpled man closer to the disarmed one. "The Blacksmith. Where is he?"

"Screw you...!" The crumpled man answered.

Screw him, huh? Michael stepped on his face, forcing him to turn his head and watch. He pointed his pistol at the disarmed, well-stabbed man and shot him clean through his cranium before stepping off of his head. "Where?" Michael asked in a low, cruel rumble.

"Go to Hell...!"

If Michael wasn't so angry he probably would have laughed, but... he was livid. Livid in a way that bloodlust wasn't quenching; he... he didn't know what to do about it. "Okay." He crouched down, held the butt of his pistol against the crumpled man's cheek. "Okay."

That was when the bludgeoning began. Relentless pistol whipping, hard enough to break skin, flesh, his cheekbone. His jaw. He only paused when the shape of the man's face began to change from something square to something more like a pentagon on one side.

"I want a place." Michael stood and flipped the gun around, his trigger finger itching like mad.

It took a few blood-soaked coughs and sputters, but he finally answered. "41st street. The pier. I can take you-" The final gunshot cut him off permanently.

As if Michael wanted to be escorted by slime like this.

And that was it. It was over. There was no catharsis, no warlike joy in getting rid of these two terrible men and obtaining one more clue to get to another. He was too... out of it. Shaken. Disrupted, somewhere in his head, by a brown-eyed girl who cut him down to nothing. Brutally so.

He could hear her shifting, gently crawling out from her hiding place with her breath all in quivers. Could hear her stand, the shuffle of her shiny patent leather shoes on the floor. The blood dripped from his lip, more bruises already beginning to bloom over prior ones, and he couldn't look at her.

"Michael..."

He hated that there was a tug in him, a pull to go to her. But her voice was so soft, and she'd already seen what kinds of things he did, and seen him ripped up and bloody like this... Staying put was one of the hardest things he'd ever done. Waiting for it was torture.

"Oh my God, oh my God...!"

There.

It technically wasn't anything she hadn't seen before, but it still shocked her, sent her hand up to cover her mouth, made her begin to weep. It was his trump card. The only thing left that he could think of that would get her to push him out. "You need to call the police. Get protective custody... Get away from this thing." From the Blacksmith. From all these mangled and bloodied bodies. "Get away from me."

She sobbed, and it almost made him follow suit. This felt wrong... This felt correct but it felt so wrong...

He dropped her car keys on the bar and felt his throat crack around his parting words. "Just stay away from me."


	25. Falling and Breaking

**The War for Hell's Kitchen  
** _Falling and Breaking  
_ By: Brenli

This felt correct.

Yeah, this felt about how it should have. Stalking about in the dark and putting bullets in the scum of Hell's Kitchen. A relentless, driving force of reckoning.

"Multiple shots... I got no idea where they're coming from, no. And our outside perimeter's not gonna-"

Someone should've told that guy that speaking when there was a shooter around was a terrible idea; he might have lasted a few more seconds if he hadn't placed that call.

Michael stepped up to the still groaning man and finished him off clean, and was immediately on to the next step. He had to keep going. He couldn't stop. This was correct... even if it felt wrong. It was correct.

He didn't waste time because that just made him think of the poor Miss. He hoped she listened to him, hoped she went for protective custody. It was for her own good. It would keep the Blacksmith and Lucifer Fisk and even himself away from her... but just in case she didn't. Just in case... he had to move fast.

It didn't take long to find plenty of narcotics, neatly wrapped and tucked into a crate he had to use a crowbar to pry into. Looked an awful lot like heroin. So this was what his family died for? Heroin?

Disgusting.

Michael immediately began dumping the gasoline he'd been toting around all over the wrapped-up drugs, and from there began his trail all across the boat that the crate had been sitting in. He worked fast because it kept him distracted. It was correct. All the while keeping an eye out for any new scum to dispatch. He'd taken care of several but he needed more. He needed the violence, he needed the war to drown out the doe-eyed peace he didn't deserve.

Fuck.

"You still here, chickenshit?" Michael began growling like a wild animal, an uncaged lion. "It's just you and me, now!" Where was he? He had to have been somewhere near. The Blacksmith... The man who'd robbed him of his family and nearly robbed him of his brown-eyed-

 _Fuck!_

The rage turned his words razor-sharp and jagged as a serrated knife. "You hiding? Huh? You afraid?" His great big can of gasoline ran out. No matter. He'd brought more, began dumping it all across the deck as he stomped in erratic directions. This was correct... This wild, unhinged madness. It was all he had, all he was allowed to have.

A bullet whizzed by him, and oh God... It was like waking up.

A rush hit him, he felt like he was alive. He immediately took up his rifle and shot back, several bullets hitting the cabin door. Cute, the guy thought the door was gonna save him. He moved in, walking past a table covered in bundles of the accursed stuff that had brought him so much grief. There were two doors next to each other at the corner of the room.

Door number one? Empty.

Door number two had the prize he was looking for, shooting at him the moment he pulled the door open."Looks like you're all out!" He spoke when he heard the tell-tale click of emptiness. "That's all you got, huh?"

The sorry scum set his gun down with a moody clank. "The cash. The shit. Just take it. Take it all!"

Michael stepped into the doorway with his rifle at the ready. "That what you think's gonna happen, huh?"

"Please..."

"You think you're gonna _talk_ your way out of this shit?" Michael shot him square in the center of his chest, set his rifle aside in favor of his pistol. "I've been looking for you." He kicked him hard, the steel toe of his boot causing the sorry scum to groan. "You're the Blacksmith... Say it."

"God, I don't wanna die!"

Yeah, they never did. He shot him again, this time in his thigh, making him scream. "Say it. I want you to tell me. Say, 'I'm the Blacksmith.'" He pressed the barrel to the sorry scum's nose. "Say, 'I'm the Blacksmith. I killed your wife.' Say it! Say, 'I killed your baby girl!'"

"I did it! I did it!" The sorry scum was wide-eyed and stammering. "I'm the Blacksmith. I'm the one you want...! Just finish it, finish it!"

"That's what you want?" Michael growled before his voice dropped to a cruel whisper, sticking the barrel in the scum's quivering and gaping mouth. "Here it comes."

"Don't shoot him, Michael! Michael!"

What the f-? "Oh, for Christ's sake!" It had been a long time since he'd seen the guy, but he was no less sick of him. "Get outta here, Red!"

"He's lying, Michael." The Devil of Hell's Kitchen persisted, wondering how the Punisher couldn't piece it together, himself. Couldn't he see that the man was being entirely too compliant, too weak to be responsible for the kind of mess that caused the loss of his family? This was the price of warlike rage... "We're here for the same reasons, all right? I want the Blacksmith just as much as you, but he's not him."

But Michael didn't budge. Kept the barrel of his gun in the poor man's mouth. The fact that he paused at all was a miracle.

So Uriel latched onto that miracle, however small it was, in all the darkness swallowing up his city and himself. "I know when someone's telling the truth, Michael. He's not."

" _Bullshit!_ Just get outta here!" He suddenly roared. How dare he...? How dare this piece of shit vigilante show up to rain morality on him? He needed this! Michael _needed_ this, it was the correct thing, it was the only thing!

"He's not the man you came for, Michael!" Uriel kept on trying, nerves making him grab for the nearest possible weapon – a hammer, nothing fancy, and nothing he hoped to use.

"It's me, I swear...!" The poor man's mouth broke free of the gun barrel and sobbed.

Michael shifted, pressing the gun against the man's face, growling in cruelty, "Are you lying to me?" It took saying it out loud to truly consider it; even if it was helpful, he still fucking hated Daredevil for it. "Are you lying to me?"

"He's not the Blacksmith. Put the gun down." Uriel's voice smoothed itself out, and Michael despised it.

Despised that velvet fucking tone, that sounded somehow familiar, but he didn't have the means to consider why. Not now. Not with his gun pressed to a man's face, on a boat filled with narcotics, having shown up only moments after using two dead bodies to form a barrier between himself and – fuck. "Either way..." He aggressively dug his claws deep into this. He needed this...

"You kill him, we have nothing..."

"... you die."

Uriel didn't give him the chance to pull the trigger, sending the hammer flying at Michael's hand. He knocked the pistol free perfectly, in such a way that even the ricocheting hammer dodged the man. He'd already had to sit by while the Punisher killed a man before him; he wouldn't let it happen again...!

There was silence. Uriel could hear the heartbeats, the poor man's as flighty as a bird's and Michael's thumping hard as bullets. There was no way for him to stop Michael from kicking the man in the face; he was too far away.

"... You just couldn't let it be, could you?" No... of course the fucking altar boy of a vigilante couldn't. He _had_ to show up in his stupid fucking red suit, acting like he had a halo on! He had to fucking ruin everything! Michael's aggression changed direction, made him stomp toward Daredevil. "You just couldn't let it!"

Uriel was ready for the impact, callused hands trying to go for his throat, but he grasped onto him and managed to just barely hold him back. "You kill him, we have _nothing_ , Michael!" Why didn't that make sense to him?

But Michael was in no mood for talking. The best he could do was let out a fierce and almost painful kind of roar, monstrous, as he pushed Uriel out of the cabin, pushed him to the ground. Started punching him. "When are you gonna learn?" He bellowed. It felt like the flesh of his throat was splitting, he was so mad...! He got up and started kicking him, sending the steel toe of his shoe straight into the Devil's gut. "Mind your own _God damn business!_ "

But it would take more than that to take Uriel down. God, after that poisoned arrow? Kicks to the gut were like mere tickles. After all that he'd lost, or let go? Michael's fiery aggression was nothing. "God damn it, Michael!" He scrambled to a stand. "We want the same thing!"

Right. Sure they did. And him having to chain him to a rooftop and tape a gun to his hand was just a prank. "That's bullshit... That's bullshit!" He charged at him, fists swinging. What he'd give to just beat this overgrown man to a pulp! What he'd give to just fucking _fight...!_

"I don't want to fight you...!" Uriel snapped in frustration, attempting to restrain him. "I _don't_ want to fight you!"

"Yeah? You want me to take it easy?" Michael slammed his forehead into Daredevil's exposed, mocha-skinned chin and forced him back against the nearest crate. Hit him, repeatedly, letting out wild roars.

At last the Devil of Hell's Kitchen had enough, and punched him square in the middle of his bruised face... and Michael definitely had to hand it to him. As annoying as he was, he had a damn good hit on him. It rung his bell a bit, made him stumble backward and backward until he crashed against yet another crate. The one he'd opened. His hands slapped against neatly-wrapped bundles of heroin, the stuff that his family died for...

Disgust hit him. Disgust made the rage flare anew within him, and he didn't allow himself to think. Michael didn't want to think, anymore... He yelled, wordless, and lunged at him again.

This time Daredevil easily moved around him and kicked him, right in the center of his back, sending him careening into the side of the boat. "Stay down, Michael."

What was he, a wild dog? "I'm so sick of you...!" Michael flung himself forward again, thoughtless, aimless. Just... angry. Just violent.

It was Uriel's turn to headbutt him, to force him back, but it had been more like throwing the man. Tossing him against still more crates... and he didn't relish this. He wouldn't have in the first place, but something about this felt off. Didn't feel like prior fights with the Punisher. This was like going against a bull who'd been primed for the bullfight. Too wild. Too bewildered. Too restless. And even more blind than himself. He couldn't read minds, but something had changed. He didn't know what.

When he reached down to help Michael stand, he reacted with a harshness that only affirmed all the off-center feelings Uriel was sensing about this. Shoving off the hand on his arm. Growling, "Get off me!" Like the ginger-haired man had wounds to lick.

God... didn't they all have wounds, these days?

Michael panted. It felt like his throat was charred, like he was burning from within. "You just couldn't let me have it, could you...?" He paced. He was livid. He was... he was upset, he was... "You just couldn't let me have it." His knees buckled and sent him to the ground, his back against the dingy wall of the boat, and when he rested his hand on his forehead, he could feel it shaking. "One second in peace..." The word opened up a deep dive into... into something else, into fucking in a car, into a conjugal dream, into coffee with a single drop of creamer in it, and suddenly he was trying to build a bridge across the chasm with a slur of moody words. "It was right there; you had to sweep in; you feel good about yourself? Piece of shit...!"

"Oh, come on, Michael. It wouldn't have been the truth, and you know it." Uriel didn't give the man the luxury of rising to his words; all it really made him feel was pity. He wondered if he ever got this way in his interactions with Nema. Not violent, but mean. Maybe not, or else why would she be so keen on defending him, on trusting him? He struggled with the idea... Uriel himself was no good for her, no. But if so, how in the world could she think so highly of the Punisher? "I can't let you start a war for the wrong reasons-"

"Maybe a war is what I need." Saying it was... comfortable. It felt correct. It felt wrong, like something was missing, but it also felt correct. "... Maybe I _need_ that." To destroy terrible people who did terrible things to wonderful people. To make sure no one lost the way he'd lost. "These people, they took my baby girl from me. They killed my kid! Don't you _get_ that?"

Uriel knelt down as Michael bellowed out the painful words, and had to yell over them to be heard. "Then do right by her! Help me! Work with me to find the man who gave the order!"

"And then what, Red?" Michael scoffed. "We gonna... We gonna bring him in for justice?" His fist swung in a mocking motion, disgust poisoning his words. "That what we're gonna do? Your way's _bullshit_ , Red! It doesn't work; I need him... I need him _gone._ It's gotta be permanent!"

"I-"

"It's gotta be _finished!_ " Then it could never happen again.

"I understand! You're right...!" And it damn near crushed Uriel to say it out loud. He hated it. It made him feel like retching, but... he didn't need his eyes to see all the damage going on around him. How all of his attempts were like pushing on a razor-edged pendulum; the harder he shoved, the harder it came back, slicing all he protected to ribbons. "My way isn't working... So, maybe... just this once..." His breath came heavy; he couldn't believe he was about to say this, about to set himself down a path that made his skin crawl. Uriel had to cross himself before he could continue, and saw many, many Hail Mary's in his future. "Maybe... yeah, your way is what it's gonna take." It was Uriel's turn to feel a chasm open up before him, but unlike Michael, he allowed himself to feel the empty dark of it. Murdering for what was right, God... he wasn't too afraid to admit to himself that he wished he had a hand to hold through the idea. A slim one with smooth calluses, with tapered, deft fingers. Her hand. Zephyr's hand.

But he'd already let her go.

Uriel could hear the erratic, frenzied heartbeat of Michael's slow to an even pace, but it felt foreboding. Sure enough, when he spoke, it was to make the chasm in Uriel's mind that much wider, that much deeper.

"Red, just this once? No." Michael shook his bruised head. It was clear that for all his vigilante games, he'd managed to stay clear of the blood work. That he was not warrior enough right now, more like a bureaucrat, like a jury, a judge, a prosecutor. "No no no no no, Red. That's... that's not how it works. It's just..." The sneer of a bitter smile left him, leaving only the rumbling finality of his voice. "You cross over to my side of the line... you don't get to come back from that." No matter what glimmers of pale gold sunlight appeared, offering him peace. "Not ever."

The sound of tires screeching pulled the attention of both men, shifting to try and get a sense of what it was.

"I count ten. Armed." Uriel murmured.

… How the fuck did he even _do_ that? Michael had no clue.

"There's a lot of gunpowder below decks," Uriel continued, as Michael saw the shine of headlights. Several cars, pulling up... the sorry scum in the cabin must have phoned them in. "Any of these guys starts shooting, this whole ship-"

"It'll blow straight to Hell." Michael finished for him.

"We gotta get off this boat before they open fire." Already Uriel was moving, looking for the best way to sneak off.

"You're God damn right, you do." He moved quick, too quick for the Devil of Hell's Kitchen to react, shoving him right off the edge of the boat and into icy cold water.

But he wasn't gonna be responsible for the possible death of Daredevil.

Michael took a deep breath and stood. "One batch..." He thought of his wife, bleeding on the grass behind him. "Two batch..." He thought of his baby girl, faceless. "Penny and dime." He thought of Miss Nema Page, and how she'd almost... she'd almost... "Here I come." He steeled himself for the worst, should it happen. "Here I come..."

"Been a long time, hasn't it, Michael?" One of the Blacksmith's men called out with a sneer, "Kill him!"

They opened fire, all of them, bullets spraying toward the boat on which he stood. He dodged them, but all the diving and running in the world wouldn't keep the gunpowder from lighting, from bursting in a terrible, blinding-bright display of fire.

Uriel spluttered to the surface as the boat burst into flames, scrambling up to the pier. Groaned, trying to process what had happened... His had been the only body to hit the water. Where was Michael? Was he still on the boat...? "No..." He could feel the heat of the flames wafting toward him in horrible waves. Why would Michael stay on the boat? That didn't make any sense! He'd been itching for justice, gone mad with the need to take down those who'd robbed him of his family. How could he get what he wanted if he was dead...?

He crouched down behind big metal drums as he heard the wail of police sirens and continued wracking his brain. Michael had to have escaped as well, right? But then why hadn't he simply jumped overboard behind him?

"Oh my God..." Uriel heard Nidhegg Mahoney sigh in dismay.

"Nidhegg?"

What...?

"Be careful, Nema!"

What was Nema doing here? Uriel felt his mind scramble. She shouldn't be here...!

"Cover these bodies." Mahoney instructed other policemen before speaking to Nema again. "Castle said he was coming here? You sure?"

Uriel heard the tacking sound of her heels, the whisper of heat and wind through her hair, ruffling her pea coat. She was hurrying, stopping, hurrying, stopping. Breathing hitched as she no doubt was looking at each body that littered the dock. As if looking for someone.

Looking for Michael, definitely. Why did Michael tell her where he was going? Maybe she'd pried the answer from him, or maybe he simply trusted her? She certainly seemed to trust him, if their last argument indicated anything. Trusted him more than she trusted Uriel... He felt like he was missing pieces, here... but he knew Nema wasn't apt to share them with him. Not anymore.

"Fifteenth Squad Sergeant to Central. Pier 81 and four-one street." Nidhegg spoke into his two-way radio. "I need FD and ambulances forthwith, and notify Harbor to respond. And Narcotics; this could be the largest heroin seizure in years...!"

"Michael..." Uriel could hear the whimper in Nema's voice... tear-stained. Torn up. Not what he anticipated from her, regarding the Punisher... "Why...?"

Her heartbeat was rapid. Panicky. So fast it almost sounded like it might break apart, or like it was already broken and was left with a heartbeat that seemed painful to bear.

Another explosion sent fire into the sky, and she was weeping. Not openly, but as he hung his head, he heard the sniffing inhale and the shuddering exhale.

She was weeping, and trying hard to keep it to herself.


	26. Onward March

**The War for Hell's Kitchen  
** _Onward March  
_ By: Brenli

"You know you can go home now, right?"

"Uh... yeah." Nema needed to take a deep sniff of a breath before turning to face Niddhegg. She felt sick... truly, physically sick. She supposed being awake for as long as she had been thus far would do that, to a girl... "You don't need anything else?"

"I have your statement." Nidhegg sounded rather peppy, considering he wasn't running on much sleep, himself. "If I have any more questions, I can track you down."

She nodded to him as she wrapped the blanket she was offered around herself even tighter, though she kept her throat exposed.

"And don't worry..." He continued as she turned away, "That so-called 'police protection' I gave you? They're crossing guards in Yonkers, now."

"What?" Nema's already-dangling stomach dropped lower, still. "No... No no no, Nidhegg, really there's... There's nothing they could do. It wasn't their fault...!" That was the truth, though he didn't know it was because she'd given them the slip. "Michael followed me; he kidnapped me...!"

"Well, thank Christ you managed to get away. Not many people can say that about the Punisher. Seriously... Go. Home."

Nema sighed, hearing it shudder past her lips.

"Get some sleep. Ambien's the real deal." It was an attempt at a joke. It failed horribly. "Look... I know what you're thinking."

Yeah, did he? Nema looked away, stared at body bags being zipped up and carried off on stretchers.

"Maybe Castle survived. Maybe he's still out there. He ain't."

Nema felt her heart thump like it meant to punch its way out of her chest. "... How can you be sure? You ID him, yet?" Maybe they hadn't, and if they hadn't then yeah... yeah. Maybe he was out there.

Or maybe he was just at the bottom of the water, not yet found.

"There's 20 burned bodies. It takes time."

"So there's a chance." That he was dead. That he survived.

"You saw the same explosion I did. You're safe, Nema."

Was she? She never felt safe, not fully. Not ever.

"That nightmare you've been living, it's over."

The idea sat inside her like a big lead ball, because how many times had she told herself that, and ended up wrong...?

"Michael Castle's a dead man. Thompson!" Nidhegg called out to an officer. "Give her a ride. Wherever she wants to go." He turned a gentle smile to her. "Get out of here, Nema."

She carried the weight of that lead ball and the weight of herself over to Thompson's car, and when they climbed in, Thompson asked, "So where to, Miss?"

And she almost cried, just like in that cab when the trial had fallen apart. "... Actually, I need to talk to my boss; can you take me to the Bulletin offices?"

She needed to check in with Nyssa about her lack of work, and make sure things were going okay with Max. Maybe take him back home, and let him be floppy and smiley and what she needed. A distraction from him...

A reminder of him.

It was hard to be angry with him when he was most likely dead and gone. Yes... he'd used her. In multiple ways, and she made a mental note that she still needed to pick up a morning-after pill. For the way he'd lead her on, he deserved a lot of mean words and probably a slap to the face and then to be ignored for at least a few days. She didn't care about the logic in it, if she was an obvious way to obtain more information. It was a shitty thing to do, to lie to her about... And to think, only moments before she'd been saying that he never lied to her.

To be fair – if nothing else she supposed the dead needed some kind of fairness, because they could no longer speak for themselves – Michael had looked incredibly guilty about it. Like the sorry feelings were what formed the bruises coloring his face... So if he felt so terrible about it, why subject her to it, at all?

For family. Nema already knew the answer. That's what it meant to be loved by a man like Michael Castle; he'd do all manner of terrible things for those he adored... and lost.

For what? Now he was gone, too.

As she thanked the police officer and stepped out of the car, she wondered what the afterlife had in store for him. Maybe he was with them, now... Nema hoped so, even as she felt her bones ache. After all he'd done for their sake, she figured it was what he deserved. To be with the ones he loved so, so very much. More than anyone or anything else...

She spotted Nyssa going over papers as she moved through the bustling office, and the editor looked up just in time to spot her. "Hey..."

Nema continued on her way to her office, letting Nyssa catch up to her.

"Hey, I've got a guy on the scanners, here. He tells me 20 people are dead."

"Yeah, well I wasn't one of them." She wasn't sure if she was ready to hear what Nyssa had to say, next. Nema just didn't have the energy to go in on this, to make a piece of it; she just couldn't find it in herself to go to work...

"Yeah?" Nyssa grabbed her wrist and didn't continue until their eyes met. "Well thank God."

And that touched her. Made her feel like crumpling into her boss' arms and weeping, though she couldn't explain the extent of her sadness. Her tiredness. Her mourning... Nema pulled away and strode into her office, sniffling.

Nyssa wished she had some whiskey to drink. "So... uh, what, that's... the third time you've been in Michael Castle's crosshairs and escaped?"

"Just lucky, I guess." Though Nema certainly didn't feel lucky. She was getting more and more certain she was cursed. Yes, Michael already came with his own dangerous agenda, but he was now one in a list of people who perished in one way or another because of her. Urich. Wesley. Her brother...

"Yeah, well, we both know that's a load of shit." It hurt to be cruel, but Nyssa didn't like being avoided, either. Especially on something as huge as this. "But, you know, just in case I'm deposed one day, we'll say you're the luckiest lady on the planet. Deal?" She waited for a response. Any kind of response...

But Nema just sniffed and fought tears and thumbed through papers on her desk. Gathered folders together.

"... Great, great." She bit back the moodiness and tried to just... be a boss. "How's the, um... How's the story coming?"

"There isn't one."

Nyssa felt the statement wake her up better than seven shots of espresso. "... How do you figure?"

"Because everyone is _dead._ " Nema felt like she would be telling herself that for a very long time, because nothing had ever been more true. Everyone was dead. "Reyes. Blacksmith. Michael." Urich. Wesley. Her brother. "They're all dead." And she was done.

"Mmm hmm." Nyssa quietly agreed.

"So anyone who was involved in the cover-up, or screwed over by it, is _gone._ So there are no more stakes; there's no reason to write it." No reason to write at all, probably. Time for another career change; maybe she'd become an actress, and she'd never stop acting. Just lose herself in fake personas until her real self was gone; that sounded good.

"So what am I supposed to fill Sunday's paper with?" Her boss asked flatly.

Nema laughed, tasting the bitterness of it like the way Michael enjoyed his coffee. "Crossword puzzles." She returned to gathering her folders together. She wanted to lock them away. She wanted to burn them.

"Look, Nema, Nema..." Nyssa sighed. "I understand that this whole journalism thing is new to you, but a real journalist doesn't just up and quit..."

"Well that's not fair...!" Yeah, that sounded childish... Not one of Nema's proudest moments.

"That's exactly fair!" Nyssa snapped. Felt terrible for snapping... but knew that it needed to happen. Not just as her boss, her mentor, but as a friend. She was watching the bright-eyed ingenue crack apart before her eyes; it was like watching the death of her... "Stories don't disappear, they change. They become different stories."

"Change?" The word broke into splinters and got stuck in the insides of her cheeks. "I'm _exhausted._ " Unbelievably so, in every way. "I need to go home, I need a shower, I need to eat, I need to sleep, I-!"

"Why do you care so much about Michael Castle?"

The question tore her apart, made her begin to weep in earnest.

Which killed Nyssa, but Nema needed this. She knew Nema needed this, like anyone about to give up needed a harsh tug back onto their feet. "I mean, maybe once upon a time this was about whether or not he was innocent or some sort of, you know, psycho murderer, but that ship sailed a _long_ time ago, along with your career at Nelson and Murdock. So why do you still care?"

"Because he is _not_ a psycho murderer!" She wept and she growled and she thought she might start turning her office upside down and inside out. "... He wasn't a psycho murderer." Wasn't. The correct tense, the tense used for the dead.

Nyssa bit back her sadness and hid it with a shrug. "I don't know how you... He killed 30-something people."

True, but things were never as simple as that, never had been. Never will be. Some psychos weren't murderers. Some murderers weren't psychos. "His family was gunned down in front of his face." She remembered memories he shared while strapped to a hospital bed. "Now what he did was wrong..." She delivered a sharp glare as she remembered fighting for him in court, "But no one, _including_ your paper, ever mentioned the fact that he was a father... and a husband, grieving, looking for answers! And you, more than anyone, should understand _why_ that matters to me!"

Yes... Nyssa knew. Nyssa understood, even if it felt like there were pieces missing in all the files Isobelle Urich had slipped into some folders labeled 'Nemaelle Page.' There had been enough there to understand... and that was why Nyssa had no choice but to push her like this. Even if it was painful. "... So you're saying there's more to him."

She watched as the ingenue stood there, tired and hurt and angry and ready to fight her... Good. That was what Nyssa wanted. For that aggressive, glowing-bright spark to remain. To not watch it get extinguished from her pain, to see it flare all the brighter for it, instead. For Nema to still be Nema. "... Yes." The word was small but it was as powerful as a bullet.

Nyssa took the hit with pride. "... So is this story over?"

Another pair of tears made their escape from Nema's brown eyes, but along with them came a smile. Small, tired. But a smile, just the same. "... Fine. You're right."

"I know." Nyssa felt herself smiling with her. "Get used to it."

"So it's not... it's not an exposé, anymore. It's what? It's a... profile?"

"Yes."

"Which means I need more sources. Like personal contacts, right? Like someone who knew him outside the trial?"

It was work, yes, but it was more than work. It was Nema being brought back to life. Now Nyssa wanted some whiskey just in honor of her thankfulness. "Tick-tock, tick-tock. Sunday's coming...!"

"Okay okay okay!" Nema's hands tore through her pale blonde hair. "... I might be able to get someone. Maybe." She grabbed her folders.

"Leave it." Nyssa waited until Nema unfroze and set the folders back down. "It's time to face the truth, Nema Page... This is your home, now." She smiled a very rare smile, one that wasn't sharp. One that made her green eyes soften behind the lenses of her glasses.

"... Does that mean Max has to move in, here?"

"I'd honestly be fine with it. He can be our office mascot."

Nema laughed, a few remaining tears choking it. "You'll hold onto him just a little while longer?"

"Oh, I'm holding him for ransom. One article if you want him to come home with you!" Nyssa's smile grew. "Go!"


	27. Epiphany

**The War for Hell's Kitchen  
** _Epiphany  
_ By: Brenli

"Thank you for seeing me so late...! I hope I'm not disturbing your family."

Colonel Kamael Schoonover had a... very peculiar chuckle, though just about everything about him was peculiar. Like his speech, it was slow, seemed measured and too controlled. "Oh... No. No. I have teenagers. They haven't been home on a Friday night in... years."

Nema couldn't stop herself from wondering if they were anything like him.

"Can I... get you some coffee?"

"Oh, no thanks; I'm ten cups in already." She chuckled and swallowed, partly from caffeine jitters and partly from the queasy feeling received by the morning after pill she'd taken, after leaving Nyssa. Had she considered an actual day of rest? Yes... for, well, maybe a half hour. Sitting idle just wasn't working... She couldn't do it; she needed to keep moving. Maybe she'd rest when she was dead.

"Ah..." Schoonover said simply and slowly, "Castle would call that a... good start." Again with that measured laugh. "I know... I'm old. My wife calls me cranky."

She almost wanted to ask his wife what it was like to be married to such a robot of a man.

"All the violence these days... the media would have you believe... that's all there is in the world." His hands, one a prosthetic, folded neatly together. "I'm glad you're writing this article... about Michael." His purposeful pauses were twice as long as his usual ones. "The real Michael."

Nema felt herself smile; her lashes felt wet. "Well, that's the goal."

"Uh-huh."

There was a lot to be said for people who were comfortable in silence, but this silence wasn't very comfortable at all. It felt too wooden, just like the wood paneling of the walls, the hardwood floor, the wood in the fireplace near where she stood. But she tried not to hold that against him. Being stiff wasn't a crime. "... I want to show people that Mr. Castle wasn't just the Punisher." Because he wasn't. He was also Michael, who used to carry around a wallet gone fat with nickels and dimes for his daughter. He had rage in him, yes, but he had so much love...

"Although..." Kamael paused, which was more like brief meditation, "How is it a lawyer... is writing for a newspaper?"

"Oh, no, I was a legal assistant." She laughed sheepishly, because even that wasn't really correct, exactly. She was just some... glorified secretary.

"Past tense...?"

"Uh..." Nema fidgeted with her tiny notebook, thumb clicking the top button of her pen several times. "Turns out, I just have a knack for this." Another nervous chuckle, another churn of the stomach. It wasn't fair to be like this around him...

"... I see."

"Um, may I?" Her hand waved toward the several pictures, framed and hung on the wall behind him.

"Of course... That's what they're there, for." He tacked on another peculiar chuckle, likely knowing it could come off rude, otherwise.

She reassured him with a smile. "Thanks." When she crossed over, he moved, as though switching places with her, but it gave her full view of each picture. Nine in total. Marines in their camo, some of them stern-faced and some of them very smiley. It was easy to spot Michael, the sunlight glinting bright off his ginger-red crew cut, making it look more like fire. Clean-shaved and clean-faced... not a bruise in sight. She contained a wistful sigh; she'd never get to see his face that way, in person... "During the trial, you talked aloud about Michael as a Marine." She spoke to the pictures.

"Our primary bond."

"Mmm." Nema nodded as she focused on a picture of Michael and Kamael, each flanking a fellow soldier in a hospital bed who'd sustained several injuries, but was alive and awake. Schoonover looked proud to have a man of such caliber among his troop. Michael looked like a guard dog. There wasn't any better way of putting it, the way he leaned inward, the tenseness in his jaw, the fierce blue-green gaze that he gave the camera. Like he thought more threats were incoming, and like he needed to protect one of his own... "Talked about respect and gratitude." The picture above that one was a bit happier, Michael with Schoonover and three other soldiers. This time one corner of his lip lifted in a cocky, proud smirk... She turned to look at the Colonel. "You know, honestly... you're one of the only people I can find that has anything kind at all to say about him."

"... One... of the only?"

Nema laughed quietly and looked at the toes of her patent leather heels. "There's a pet shop owner who thinks highly of him. A former Marine. Vietnam vet. But he... well. I don't think he knew him on the level that you did."

"Mmm." That was all Kamael offered.

"... So I, um... I guess my question is, did you like him?"

Oh, the pause stretched on for what felt like nearly a full minute. "... Like him?"

Nema clicked at her pen in nervousness. "Well, like, um... as a man? As a... a friend?" She elaborated as she sat against the arm of a sofa.

A smile creaked across his face – it really came across that way, like maybe his jaw joints needed a bit of oiling up – before he spoke. "... When you're fighting a war... you don't really make friends. At least... not if you're... fighting it the right way."

"Mmm." She gave him the response only in the hope that it would make him continue.

"I suppose... you don't want to get close to anyone. Because... hey, you're... you're not all coming back." A thought struck him, but he had to chew on it thoroughly before sharing it. "But... at the same time, you... have to feel something... don't you? Otherwise... what are you all fighting for?"

Nema Page jotted down his words as he spoke, finding that she actually had to pause because of all his pauses. But his change of thought was what made more sense, to her... You couldn't be so involved in something without beginning to care. That was true in war. That was true in life. That was true from between lines of tape and hand cuffs and prison bars...

"I remember... Michael used to sing this... horrible little song." Another mechanical chuckle. "He had picked it up... from one of his kid's TV shows... when he was on leave. And he brought it back to Afghanistan with him... it was infectious. It went through everything like a virus..."

Nema felt the laugh bubble right out of her, unchecked. But it was so beautiful to imagine... Michael singing children's show songs, even while at war, it was... it... it reminded her of slivers she'd seen. Him tapping at her already half-empty coffee mug, him ending his texts with '- Dreamsicle'. Maddening, but in a way that was so warm... She missed him. She missed him...

"Worse than malaria..." Kamael continued, unaware of her sadness. "Used to crack him up."

Her smile made her face ache. "I don't know... I don't know that I ever saw Michael like that." Not exactly, not in full. Just tiny pieces, like shafts of sunlight breaking through all the bruises he wore...

"... You probably never saw him do impressions, either."

Nema's lashes fluttered in a blink. "Impressions?"

"Yes."

"Of, like, famous people?" This was reaching levels of absurdity, but God, she didn't mind the thought. The idea of Michael being happy and foolish enough to do things like this...

Kamael's mechanical smile finally reached his eyes. "Well... I only ever saw him do me... but he had a knack for it, really."

Her laughter drowned out his. She couldn't help it. Oh, she bet Michael had a knack for it. She'd give anything to see it, herself...

"A sixth sense... about ticks and subconscious behaviors..." Nema hadn't even realized Schoonover meant to continue, "... the way a brain works. It was spot-on... really. Unnerving... the way he could look into a person's soul."

When had the mood taken a turn like this? The caffeine jitters were back, the stomach churning was back. "I... I think I know what you mean." It spoke of gaze meeting gaze in all manner of situations – in the hospital, the courtroom, the holding cell, her apartment... her car – and just knowing. Just feeling. Holding conversations in a language that had no real words or gestures. She missed him...

"Well..." Kamael's smile began a gradual, stiff fade. "Wherever Michael is now... I hope he finds that better part of himself, again."

What else could Nema do but nod and let the sadness seep back in? She hoped for the same. Michael deserved to be happy, to remember what peace was... even if that only happened after death. "Um... Colonel." She cleared her throat and stood. "Did you happen to catch the news last night? There was a shipyard explosion."

Schoonover paused, which felt more like watching a computer freeze while loading. "... Yes... Yes, I think I did hear something about that... A drug deal gone south or something?"

"Right. Yes, something like that."

"Mmm hmm."

Nema clicked at her pen rapidly, all jitters and stomach churning. "Uh, well... just between you and me, um..." She couldn't look him in the eye. Could she trust him? Just because they both thought well of Michael, didn't mean she could trust him... "The NYPD's keeping things under wraps until the investigation is complete, but... Michael was involved."

"... Oh." He spoke so quietly, she barely heard him.

"He was on the ship when it went up." She sighed.

He sighed with her. "Police are sure...?"

"Um, well, they don't have an ID yet, but..." She tried to breathe in again, to inhale the tears, but she felt them building on her lashes. Nerves made her chuckle. "Sorry, I just...!" Missed him. She had to turn away, to look at pictures of him bruiseless and proud and protective. "You know, I was at the docks all night, into the morning. Watching them just pull bodies out of the water, and there's no way anyone could've..." She paused.

That man... that wounded man in the picture with Michael looking like a guard dog.

He was there.

There was no mistaking it; she'd seen the body get zipped up. Bleached blonde hair, no toner to take out the yellow, and brows so dark they gave away his true shade. He was there...

And for all Kamael Schoonover's observed slowness, he was quicker than he seemed. "After a war... some men turn their backs on you. They want to forget... Not Gosnell. No..."

That last word had dropped to a deadly low timbre, and that was when the too-familiar fight or flight kicked in. They were equidistant from the only exit...

"He took the worst part of an IED on a recon... north of Kabul. Left half his face... on a dirt road. Spent the better part of a year in a hospital... but that kid never gave up... Never gave in."

Nema took her turn slowly; fear making her stomach flip all the worse. But she kept her eyes open and searching. She'd left her purse in the entryway in a too-false sense of security; her gun was out of reach. There was a lamp behind her. She could jab with her pen if necessary... "It's late." She whispered cautiously. "I'll get out of your hair. I think I have everything that I need." She hurried over to her pea coat; wished she had a weapon stashed in there. Any kind of weapon...

"Once he got out... he tracked me down." Schoonover, as usual, wasn't in any hurry. Didn't even move from his spot. "Asked me how he could serve me again... that boy was the definition of 'loyal'... Or, was."

Nema heard the sound of a drawer being pulled open.

"Before Michael Castle murdered him."

She turned just in time to see what she feared – a pistol, cocked and aimed at her. "Colonel, please..." Her voice was all in quivers and she thought she might be sick. "I just think I should go..." The pause was too lengthy, driving her fear into spiking levels of desperation. His slowness was unsettling because it made him seem... not human. Unfeeling. Dangerous.

"I'll walk you out." The Blacksmith said, cold and heartless.

What else could she do but move out of his house, with him pointing his gun at her? Her body was thrumming with the need to get the upper hand... they were going to pass her purse; it was her only chance, however risky...! Her pace quickened when she saw it, sitting on the little table set beside the front door. She reached out -

"Oh... Leave the purse. You won't need it."

Exactly what she was afraid of. The pistol pressed to her back, and she moved out of the house. "L... Listen, I won't write the story. I won't write anything. I'll-"

"Shut up."

Nema was quiet the whole way down the porch steps, but she knew she had to keep trying. She had no reliable weapon against his gun, she couldn't run with him aiming at her. She had nothing but an attempt at negotiation... "Look, no one will be suspicious; I'm not even a real reporter..." No matter what Nyssa had to say about it. She had zero articles published; no one knew her.

"Just get in the car." Kamael's voice was even as ever.

It made her blood curdle and it made her obey, pulling her keys from her pocket. Her fingertips tapped her phone in the process and she immediately considered attempting to dial 911 from within her pocket and letting it sit. She unlocked the passenger side door and considered letting him get in, only to run for her life. If she slammed the door it might buy her a couple of seconds -

He pressed the gun against her again. "Get in. Start the car."

So she climbed in, sliding all the way over to the driver's seat. "Where are we going?" Nema asked quietly.

"Start the God damn car." He took his time, watching her fumble with the keys, start the engine. "Keep your hands on the wheel... Don't make any-"

"Well I don't know why I came here tonight. I got the feeling that something ain't right."

What...? But she'd driven over in silence-

The realization hit her, point blank, and all she could do was stare out of the window in what she hoped didn't look like an obvious attempt to find him.

"Start driving." The Blacksmith flatly, evenly demanded, while Joe Egan kept singing about being stuck in the middle. "... Drive!"

That the last word felt even the slightest bit harsh had Nema immediately obeying, her car lurching uncomfortably before she took a breath and continued driving down the dark, wooded road.

"Turn that shit off."

Nema promptly did as she was told, her eyes darting about like a doe's. Like she might find him in the trees with a machine gun in his hand, channeling his inner Rambo. But God, he could channel Rambo all he liked if it meant he was...

If it meant Michael was...

"... Could've been smart." Schoonover spoke, still aiming at her. "Could've let the story go down with that boat..."

Nema was only paying half attention at best. Did he have his own car, maybe? She didn't see any headlights from behind her...

"'The real Castle.'" He made a scoffing sound that seemed alien in his otherwise mechanical voice. "Like you cared about him..."

Like she cared whether or not Schoonover thought she cared. Where was he. Where was he. Where was he.

"Pull over here."

Here? There weren't any buildings as far as she could see. Just trees. Just darkness. Would Michael be somewhere here? Hiding in the trees like Rambo?

"Pull over!"

But before she could obey, a terrifying force struck her car from the right. Another car, a truck with the headlights turned off, speeding hard enough to push her car all the way to the left side of the road.

She blacked out before she could process anything else.


	28. Already Dead

**The War for Hell's Kitchen  
** _Already Dead  
_ By: Brenli

The only reason he figured out the mystery was because he'd spotted him. Gosnell... with that ugly fucking bleach job that he always liked so much. Calling out to him, which distracted him just enough to nearly get him blow to pieces, fried and then drowned.

But only nearly.

When Michael noticed Nema's car parked outside of his Colonel's house, it set a series of wild alarm bells off, like they were strung in chains throughout his body. There wasn't even the time to ask why, because he knew how quickly life was stolen. A hundred, a thousand contingency plans fell into place...

The cassette tape thing, well. That wasn't a contingency plan so much as a... he didn't know. A message. Something. Just in case something happened that resulted in her reaching her car and speeding the fuck out of there. He wanted her to know he survived. He wanted her to know that the Blacksmith was no threat, _because_ he survived.

Playing that tape had been... aggravating, he supposed. Having to hear, "You, my brown-eyed girl," had a way of tripping him up, making him forget what buttons were as he briefly just... slapped at the slot the tape sat in, before pushing the rewind button. Pointless. He just didn't want that to be the first thing she heard when she turned her car on, because... because.

But the car was silent, now, as he backed up the ruined truck he'd stolen and shut it off. Climbed out. Ripped open the passenger side door. Both of them were out cold...

He was worried, but only on the marginal level. He'd hit the brakes as soon as he crunched in the passenger side door; the crash was cruel but controlled... but that didn't mean the poor Miss hadn't gotten hurt at all.

Michael leaned in, hands reaching out to press fingers against two different throats... Two heartbeats.

Well, he only wanted the one heartbeat.

As his left hand unbuckled Schoonover, his right... cupped Nema's rosy cheek. Gently, gently so. He felt blood, frowned, tipped her face toward him... A superficial scratch that simply bleed a lot. She'd be okay, even though he was definitely, _definitely_ still a piece of shit for subjecting her to any kind of pain.

There was a reason he more or less begged her to stay away from him.

After this. After this she would never see or hear from him, again. That was for the best, for her, for him...

He grunted as he yanked Kamael's body from the car and began dragging him off the road. Oh, he knew where the Blacksmith intended to take Nema, and he didn't like it. A shed, mostly for carpentering and hunting purposes; he remembered it from group parties whenever several of them were on leave, were home. But that was what made the bile rise in his throat... Schoonover wanted to drag this doe of a woman away to slaughter, to be put at the mercy of knives and implements used to gut and clean deer carcasses. Whether it was to create a message or to cut her up and dispose of her more easily, Michael didn't know.

But it certainly made him want to do the same to his Colonel.

He heard another car door open and a feminine grunt of pain, the thud of a body against the ground, and he started to move faster. No, he didn't want her to see this. He'd shown her enough in the diner. She didn't need to see anything more...

But she saw enough. She was dazed and nauseous and tingling with her survival, but the thick smudge of a blood trail was unavoidable. Even shining, slick and white, in the moonlight, leading off into the forest. "Michael..." The name was a sigh and a cry and a plea. She touched the blood dripping from her temple.

She kept going.

"You..."

Michael growled low in his throat and moved all the faster, half dragging him, half pulling the Blacksmith to his feet.

Kamael stumbled, but kept speaking, voice creaky as beaten metal. "You... should be at the bottom of the Hudson... Losing $100 million in heroin... would've been worth it... to take you down. But here we are, huh...?"

Michael didn't rise to his words, though he considered shooting him right then and there. The only problem with that was that Nema would hear it, and if he had his way, she'd hear nothing from him, again. Instead he shoved him forward and aimed his pistol at him, letting the cocking sound do the talking.

"You could've been part of it... like Gosnell. You could've been rich... and maybe... you could've taken your family to the Bahamas... instead of Central Park... huh?"

Michael had no patience for _this man_ talking about _his family._ His knee-jerk reaction was to stomp against his calf and send him to knees with a pained groan. He really wanted to just shoot him, now...

"You think this..." Kamael continued, "... all of this... is about a bad drug deal? That's what you see..." He panted, which sounded so strange compared the usual... but that was good. It affirmed he was human.

Michael needed him to be human. Humans could be killed.

"You're losing your touch, Michael... Your kid... at the park...? No. Who cares...? That's never... what this has been about..." Kamael kept crawling onward, hearing Michael's boots scrape across the forest floor after him. "It's about... what happened with you. With all of us... Kandahar." He said the name of the city like it was a curse with which he could ruin Michael.

Yeah, Michael was done with this. Yet he was still silent as he grabbed his Colonel by the back of his shirt and threw him against the trunk of the nearest tree, listening to him briefly protest and grunt.

Kamael's face was bloody and twisted into a tired kind of agony, but still he stared up at the soldier he spoke so fondly of, at the trial. "You think... they would ever let that go?"

"Michael, stop."

No... no no no no no. God dammit! Why couldn't she just call for help and get herself to a hospital, instead of... instead of tailing him, getting drawn into all this violence that she herself said she didn't like?

But still, there she was, bleeding from the temple, one hand cradling a hurt left arm, the heels of her shoes sinking slightly into the ground. "... You don't have to kill him." That was the truth, it... it _had_ to be the truth. They had him. He could be put away in prison for the rest of his days, _something_. Anything but... but _more_ bloodshed...

And she almost thought she reached him, her brown eyes pleading, his blue-green ones... bewildered, and frantic, and... sad. She almost thought she reached him. "Go back in the car."

Her gaze turned into a knife-cutting glare... because of course it did. Nema never backed down that easily; she had the soul of a fighter. It at once made him proud and thoroughly, utterly dismayed. "What's he talking about? Kandahar, what's that... what happened?"

"Go." He wished that he could've been mean about it. Maybe she would have listened if he was, but... all he could do was say the short word gently.

"Did you do something?" He didn't answer her, but the sudden lack of eye contact said enough. "If they come after you... Just tell me. Tell me the truth, I'll help you, I'll help you figure it out. Just tell me the truth...!"

Was it terrible that some secret part of him enjoyed that idea? Like the trial days, pouring over puzzle pieces and putting it all together as a duo... But he wasn't going to pull her into the whole mess that was Kandahar. He wasn't going to do it, just like he was going to spare her from all the things she wanted nothing to do with... like killing men, even if they were bad men.

"Yeah... Tell her the truth..."

Nema saw the hatred flash across Michael's bruised-up, shadowed-over face, and felt the heat flare up inside of herself. This was no place for taunting; she couldn't believe it, but she wanted one of Kamael's pauses to extend for a good long year. For him to shut the fuck up, so that it could just be Michael. And it could just be her... "Tell me for Bal. Tell me for Jenebel."

"Tell her what you did..."

"You _shut up!_ " Nema hissed, her patience gone. She was tired and achy and bleeding and fucking heartbroken and she had no room for Kamael right now!

"Tell her..."

"What happened?" Nema spoke over him. "Please, we'll figure it out...!" She saw his eyes shift around the forest floor, and God... he looked lost. Like a lost boy. She wanted to weep just for the look on his face, alone... "We'll figure it out, but if you kill him, you will _never_ know."

At last he looked at her again, met her eyes with his own, and he was hurting and she was hurting and she was pleading and he was... tired. Sighing out the fatigue, and all she wanted to do was carry the burden for him. God knows she could have; she carried so much as it was, anyway...

But then he grabbed Schoonover by his coat and began dragging him the several feet toward the shed, which loomed dark and dingy and foreboding.

"No no no, _Michael!_ " Nema heard her voice grind out the name, shooting it at him like a bullet as she hurried forward. She didn't know what to do. She didn't know. She didn't... "Listen to me. Michael! You do this, and you are the monster that they _say_ you are! Do you hear me?" She didn't mean it. God, she didn't mean it...!

He kicked open the door and dragged Kamael inside.

She didn't know what to do...! "You do this, and I am _done!_ That's it; you're _dead_ to me! Do you hear me?" Nema had to shut her eyes against tears as she just... screamed her heart out. And yet she felt herself protesting, felt herself crying out that she didn't mean it...

Michael threw the Blacksmith to the floor, and he looked at her from within the doorway... Tired... Angry... Sorry. So very, very sorry... "I'm already dead."

He shut the door. He shut her out... The shock of it had her staring, wide-eyed, tasting bile in the back of her throat. But she swallowed it down and began the slow, delicate journey back to her ruined car. She needed to place a call. She needed to get checked out at a hospital, and she needed her car towed.

She didn't need to alert the police.

Surely he would listen to her. Right? He struggled, but she knew what it meant to struggle. She knew what it meant to want to kill a man. Not even just terrible men, though she knew about that, too. She knew what it meant to want to kill a man, even if that man was a big part of your life, or had been at one point. Or even if that man hurt someone you loved. She knew. She knew what it meant.

But it didn't have to always be this way. It didn't have to be blood-drenched. He started all of this because no one was listening, but she was listening, she was here...! So surely he'd listen, too...!

And he'd reach out to her. He had her number, he could call her, or text her and end it with '- Dreamsicle' just to annoy her. And they could go to a diner. And they could hash this out. And if he wanted he could even stay in the dark; it was fine, it was fine, Nema knew a lot about the dark, more than she preferred to let on. She could do all the work, weave tales about how she found all this out. It wasn't even hard! She went to interview Kamael Schoonover and noticed that one of the soldiers was one of the bodies at the shipyard. Get the police to compare the pictures with the bodies and connect the dots. It was _easy!_ The Blacksmith would never see the light of day again! They could do this; he just had to listen to her! He just had to-

The gunshot pierced through the chill of the night, as she stared into the headlights of her car. The tears were silent and painful, spilling from between her lashes as her knees gave out and she crumpled to the asphalt. The hard grit skinned her, but it didn't register; she hurt too much elsewhere.

Though the shot hadn't killed her, it tore clear through her heart.


	29. Born out of Death

**The War for Hell's Kitchen  
** _Born out of Death  
_ By: Brenli

Michael felt resistance when he pushed open the door. Nothing major, nothing that required a lot of force, just... usually the door swung open a lot easier. At least, that's what he remembered...? Maybe?

He stepped in quietly, looking down at the piles of junk mail in his name... well. Not all of it. An Avon catalog sat on top with Bal's name printed on as the recipient. He leaned down, grabbed a folded newspaper, but didn't bother flipping it open. He had so much more to see...

Why was he here? He didn't know. Standing in that shed, discovering all the hidden, violent treasures within it... The gunshot ringing out loud, feeling like it shredded up his chest, the spot where his heart was. He'd made his decision, then.

Michael told her that he was already dead. Well, if he was, then he'd have to cast away everything... All the things that made him Michael Castle. Including... this house. Including... all the memories that lay in it.

His combat boots crossed the floor, making their way to the piano... There was that jar, half full of pennies and dimes... and he couldn't stop himself. He pulled out his wallet, opened it. Three dimes and five pennies, he put them all in that jar. Would've been enough for three cookies, with a couple pennies to spare because he loved his baby girl. He lifted the cover, almost tapped a key... stopped. His trigger finger twitched and his fingers rubbed together to soothe the itch, the ache.

He moved through the living room; everything was so alive. So lived in. The pillows against the arms of the couch not perfectly lined up, some mail on the coffee table. Toys on the floor. He saw a trail in the thin film of dust on the hardwood, a Barbie doll car that rolled... and he knew she must have kicked it on accident, with her shiny, patent leather shoe.

Michael felt his mouth open, but no sound came out. There was no one to talk to, and like a museum, it seemed better to let things be in their quietness. But he saw her footprints, now that he was looking for them, high heels making their way into the kitchen. God, he could hear the tacking sound of them... he followed them, boots stepping on top of her marks and leaving his own. Wanting to take the same tour she'd taken.

The plates were all set out, nice and neat, silverware and all... 'like ready for dinner.' That's what she said, and she was right. He moved forward, pulled out the chair he usually claimed, sat down. It felt at once both familiar and alien... Nema hadn't taken a seat; she hadn't made herself at home. But he saw her shoe prints moving to the sink and then circling the table before leaving.

Why did she decide to break in? Even now, he didn't know. Not really. The initial anger was beaten out of him when she snapped at him, chocolate-doe eyes cutting him like a knife... because she was fighting for him, and demanding that he fight for himself. Since then, the question faded further and further away... beneath puzzle-piece work together, beneath being called a dreamsicle, beneath saying goodbye and saying hello again, diving on her. Beneath dreams. Beneath time in a car. Beneath betrayal. Beneath breaking her heart.

Nema didn't need to tell him for him to know. It was smeared all across her face, somewhere in the anger and the desperation. He'd broken her heart. Dragged it around. Used it for bait. Crashed into it with a truck. Shut a shed door on it. Shot it.

So much had happened, even between all the things that kept them at a distance – and the brief time when nothing held them back – that asking the question now, wondering... the answer didn't seem to matter.

It was as she said. It just _was._ It was just feelings; they couldn't be explained.

He tried to remember dinner time at home, and it felt useless. His wrists were resting against the table, but then dropped and dangled. Michael just... stared, at dishware with a thin film of dust over it. It was his turn to cook, that day; that's why all this stuff was out, here... What was he planning to cook? He couldn't remember. He remembered that Bal sat on his left, and Jenebel on his right. Her feet were always kicking around and Bal would gently scold her to sit still. Sometimes he'd tease her, lightly tapping her foot with his own. The last several dinners it had been the other way around. He'd just been so tired... Tired like he was tired, now.

He opened up the newspaper and was greeted with the X-ray of his own skull, and the words struck too true: Michael Castle Dead.

That was the nature of his tiredness; he understood it, now. He felt dead. He'd felt like he was dying. He stared at the proof of it. His death's head of a skull, with the God damn hole in it. There was no going back to what he was before; he was marked. Permanently.

His chair scraped across the floor as he stood and moved out of the house to make his way into the tool shed. It wasn't anything as elaborate as the Blacksmith's, and it certainly didn't have any secret compartments. No, his home was supposed to be his peaceful place... Where he went when he wasn't at war. But now he was always at war, constantly. He didn't know any other way to be. Hell... even with all of Miss Nema Page's efforts, he didn't know any other way.

Michael shined a flashlight around the workstation and saw the last project he'd finished. An old radio transmitter; Bal had always thought the thing was hideous. He supposed it was, but an old friend who used to tinker around with mechanical scraps like this one had him interested in doing the same. If he remembered right, he'd successfully finished it...

Flipping enough little switches and twisting enough little dials confirmed it, a slightly fuzzy speech coming through; cops speaking in their codes. He let it run, putting the end of the flashlight in his mouth so that he could shine it on the bulletproof vest he'd taken from the Blacksmith. He couldn't see Kamael as anything but the Blacksmith, anymore...

He smoothed and adjusted it, grabbed the nearest can of spray paint... White. The only reason that he had it was for some project he'd been doing with Jenny... Christmas decorations? Spray painting snowflakes and Angels... that was what came to mind.

Michael shook the can; there wasn't much left. He used it nonetheless, spraying it in gradual strokes across the black material.

"10-13, officer down! 36th and 7th!"

He'd just finished, but paused with the can still in his hand, listening to the radio.

"They stuck him with a God damn arrow!"

The Hell...?

"Copy that!" Another officer responded, "10-13. Officer down. Backup on the way! Over!"

… Well, then. Just in time for the death of him, and the birth of... someone else. No more being in the middle of dying or the middle of being made; there wasn't the time for that. But he had to move quickly.

He slipped the vest on in a hurry and made quick work of... the rest. Moving through the memories he couldn't keep holding on to, dousing it in gasoline. He paused at the mantle where his various medals were hung in frames, alongside pictures of soldiers he thought were brethren but... in the end... they were different. Cut from a different camo cloth.

No, no time for this. His fist shot out like a bullet and broke the glass, never mind the fresh blood blooming from his knuckles. He'd endured worse. He yanked down the frame, pulled out the picture and let it fall to the floor. A CD caught the amber glow of the streetlights from outside... The only part of this house he would be taking with him.

Micro.

When he finished up here, he'd make sure to get in touch. Soon...

Michael had to do this, first. Had to leave one of the Blacksmith's explosives here and there alongside puddles of gasoline. Had to light a match and drop it just as he left. Had to let the remnants of the man he was go up into bursts and flames as he marched away, and didn't look back.

The death of him...

The birth of someone else. The painted symbol, the skull, dried upon his vest as he shifted the loaded ammo belt higher up his shoulder. It slipped a little, as the Blacksmith's machine gun swung from his hand. Not the gun he was intending on using, but he wasn't going to leave it for just anyone to find. No... he'd find some use for it, he was sure.

He willed himself to think of nothing else as he drove the Blacksmith's van. Not what he'd just killed. Not what might lay ahead. Nothing but the present and what he'd probably use. At his heart – even if it was a dead heart – he was a sniper, he liked his distances and his scopes and his clean, sneaky shots. Rooftop, then. Which building was tallest surrounding the location? 36th and 7th...

Granted, he didn't know the full situation, but how was that any different from war, in the end? And this was war. It was war on scum like the Blacksmith, who fucking ruined the lives of wonderful people, but he wouldn't let himself think further than that. He'd lost what he'd lost and now he was dead.

No, Michael would only focus on what he should use, on which of the new toys he'd acquired from the Blacksmith should get some fresh air. The MRAD, maybe.

He parked and went through the cases... Yeah. The MRAD. He had a good feeling about that one; he liked trusting his hunches. He could hear the commotion already, and his knee-jerk wish was to enter the fray, but the building was surrounded by cop cars. It didn't matter if he meant to spare them the trouble by taking care of it, himself; he was a wanted man. A fugitive.

So into the nearest building he went, running up stairwell after stairwell. He kicked open the door leading to the roof and felt the chilly bite of the wind nip at his bruised face, and the pain of it felt like being alive. Almost, he was almost born anew, he was almost the only person he could be.

The Punisher had arrived just in time... for ninjas.

For fucking ninjas.

And he thought his shit was screwy? He was going to have to talk to Red about this, sometime, seeing as he was down there, taking on this weird ass ninja horde with some dark-haired woman. He didn't know who she was, but she was pretty damn good. How did she and the Devil of Hell's Kitchen know each other? Was there some kind of vigilante secret club house that he didn't know about? For a good long moment, Michael was genuinely too surprised to get ready and take a shot. True, he hadn't known what to expect, but... Ninjas. Ninjas everywhere, and Daredevil, and some woman who fought like a damn warrior.

This was kind of a lot to take in, okay?

He watched them take on separate groups of foes, come together to take on one – the one not dressed like the rest, the one who looked more like a civilian and not like something from a Kurosawa film. They'd taken down several of the ninjas by that point, and through a joint effort – a lot of kicking and spinning, holy shit it was sort of dizzying just to watch – knocked the man who had to be the leader down, though Red also took the fall.

The two men scrambled to a stand, the woman stood beside Red. Words must have been exchanged, but Michael was too far away to hear any of them. He wasn't sure that it mattered, because they were all fighting, again. Should he take a shot? He wanted to take a shot... admittedly, much like how a child felt when seeing others having more fun than they themselves were. Jenebel used to get that way, sometimes.

Fuck.

Michael took a deep breath and tried to tell himself that she wasn't for him to miss, that he wasn't her father, anymore. That her father died with her in Central Park, and now he was someone else...

That was when so, so much happened, very quickly.

Another aerial kick, sending Daredevil's helmet flying off his head. Long tangles of mahogany hair spilled free.

The head ninja went in for the kill, which had the Punisher fumbling to ready his shot.

The woman ran in and grappled... ultimately taking the killing blow. She hit the man away, and Michael had a clear view through his scope...

Holy shit... the no-show lawyer? The blind no-show lawyer was _Daredevil?_

He continued staring through his scope, fitting this unbelievable piece into all the others. The way his voice had, at times, made him feel like he'd heard it before... And this might have explained his being a no-show, though if so, then he felt like Uriel needed a different day job.

… Nema must not have known about this. There was no way she knew. It explained her anger, it explained Uriel not budging in their arguments, it explained the end of them. Nema didn't know she'd been dating Daredevil. Didn't know she'd traded out one vigilante for another...

Wait.

No, no he couldn't be thinking about this, right now or _ever_.

But the tone had been set, and it only made him... feel the tight pulling in his chest. He couldn't hear them speak, but he could see the pain... the sadness... the dying. The love.

And that explained even more things, about Daredevil, and Uriel, and the poor Miss.

The woman was gone.

The man was rising... only to leave, making his henchmen finish, as the masterminds of evil things often did.

Uriel rose, charged, and Michael knew that pain. Knew that rage too well. After all, hadn't he been there? Wanting terrible people dead because they'd taken wonderful people away from him? He was still there, counted on always being in that painful and warlike state. He was there with him, even from up high on his perch, looking through his scope. Aiming. Firing.

One down.

Ready. Aim. Fire.

Two down.

He readied another shot as he watched Uriel turn his head toward the sound of the shot, the falling body, and through the scope he saw that his green eyes didn't turn about in his search. Then the blindness wasn't a lie, a ruse to keep people from guessing... shit. That was either admirable or downright frightening.

As Uriel continued on his warpath, Michael fired again. Three down. From way below came the clamor of panicked people... they were fine. So long as they were good people, they were fine.

Another shot; four down... Only the leader left... and this time, he didn't take a shot. That man wasn't his to destroy, he was Uriel's, and the Punisher wouldn't rob him of that. As it was, he'd done enough. Put down 4 terrible people; that was a good start. It made the blood pump quicker through his veins, adrenaline surging. He felt alive. He felt born anew, and for now it was enough.

He watched Uriel's ruthlessness and ignored the way his hands itched for the same. Recognized it as a kind of brutal cheering, as Red took his strange, billy club type of weapon and whipped it outward. One end wrapped around the man's neck, and with a terrifying throw, he tossed him right over the building's edge. He never would have thought the man had it in him...

But then, there was a time people might have said the same about himself.

He looked through his scope at the crowd, at the cop cars, just to be sure that neither of them were in any danger of being apprehended. A sense of fear and wonder kept them safe...

And then the Punisher saw her.

Why? Why was she here? Looking up in the opposite direction as the masses, looking up at him. Doe-eyes gentle but cutting like a knife. Making the blood beat around faster, the adrenaline surge harder, like he was so alive. Almost too alive. He read Nema's lips. "Michael..."

… He needed to leave.

The smile, a bit tight-lipped and painful, twitched upon his lips, and he recognized it as some kind of pride, some kind of sympathy as he looked at Uriel's form, victorious and stricken. "See you around, Red."

He turned away and had no idea that he was heard. That Uriel nodded in silent reply... even as he grieved.


	30. To Be a Hero

**The War for Hell's Kitchen  
** _To Be a Hero  
_ By: Brenli

The blinking cursor was taunting her.

She heard about it often, of course. Who hadn't ever heard of writer's block, before? And could anyone fault her for having it, after all she'd been through? All the brushes with death, the moments that could have been the end of her.

And the moments that were the end of... other things.

Nema Page was familiar enough with loss to know that it wasn't anything sudden. The heart never let it happen that way... it was slow. It had to be chewed on and processed in order to get through it, and sometimes...

Sometimes, it still cropped up again like it was fresh and new. And all you could do was meet it as it came.

She sighed, crossing her legs, staring at the blinking cursor on her blank word document. She really needed to get some rest, but she promised Nyssa an article by Sunday.

Too much like a psychic cue, her boss – her friend – pushed open the door to her office. She held a short glass of scotch in her hand... neat. Not that strange, considering it was the holidays. There had been plenty of spiked eggnog and gingerbread to go around, all day long... and biscuits for Max, who wore the reindeer antler hood on his head with a lot more patience than she would have believed possible.

"Nema Page," Nyssa was very buzzed, her face red enough to rival Rudolph's nose. "What the Hell are you still doing here? It's Christmas Eve."

Being a glutton for punishment, like usual... Nema sighed.

Nyssa stepped in, barefoot. Nema was pretty sure she kicked them off somewhere by the water cooler several hours ago. "Shouldn't you be home, celebrating with all that family that you can't stand, like everybody else?" She paused, the amber liquid swirling in her glass. "Oh, no, I'm sorry. I must be projecting."

Not that Nema had any problem with her usual self, but Nyssa was much, much funnier when she was drunk, and it soothed her. Made her smile, even if it was a faded one. "I, uh..." Her voice belied her tiredness, and she felt Max shift against her feet and lick her calf. "I can't seem to stop staring at a blank screen." It wasn't that she had nothing to write. It was that she had so much to write, and couldn't get a drop of it out of herself...

"Writer's block."

"Mmm." Nema admitted defeat.

"There's a cure," Nyssa offered, as Max lazily got up and flopped his rump down next to Nyssa, letting her rub that ridiculous antler hood on his head. "Scotch."

Nema's brows gently knit together as she quietly laughed. "That helps you write?" Well, she'd heard enough about the stereotype to consider there must be some truth to it.

But Nyssa surprised her when she traded out the jokes for blunt, very Nyssa sincerity. "Oh, no. No, it just... helps me not care so much." She might have been drunk, but her green eyes were gentle behind the frames of her glasses. Nyssa wasn't soft, but her heart was in the right place.

That would always be enough for Nema, and she rewarded sincerity with her own. "Yeah, well... that's definitely my problem. I care, probably too much, about all of it." It hurt to think that, but a part of her couldn't help but feel like that was true. That things wouldn't have cut nearly as deep if she just... didn't care as much. She wondered what would have happened if she didn't care...

Would she have crossed that line of tape?

Would she have taken that shot...?

… Any of those shots?

But wondering didn't take her away from where she was, now. "I don't even know if I should start with..." Nema sighed, her fingers threading through her pale strands. "The hostage crisis... or Michael... or vigilante justice-"

"That's just garbage."

Nema watched Nyssa wave aside all the thinking aloud with her hand and paused, feeling the free fall run through her. All her time spent with Nyssa had been devoted to things like these, all hinging on Michael... but now it was garbage? "... Well it's news-"

"No, it's not. Not anymore." Nyssa drunkenly shrugged her shoulders, but spoke so much sense. "I mean, all the facts about that have been reported, already."

True... and Nema couldn't do anything about it, because she'd been too... too close to it all. Her hands folded together and held up her chin as she let out another exhausted, wordless sigh. Stared at her cursor. Felt aimless...

"Look," Nyssa slipped off her glasses and folded them up. "If you _really_ wanna torture yourself this holiday, go ahead. Be my guest. But at least write something new. Something different. Something that only you can write."

"Right," Nema's brown eyes rolled in a big circle as she collapsed back into her seat. "Which would be what?"

"The truth."

She looked at the chief editor with attentive but still-lost eyes. The truth was all she ever wanted, but there had been so many lies to sort through...

Nyssa continued after a much-relished sip of scotch, " _Your_ truth, Nema. All of it. Everything that you've been through. Don't pull any punches." She smiled and scoffed, "This is New York, not Vermont. People here think they've seen everything... Prove 'em wrong. Tell them something they don't know."

She wanted to hug her, for keeping her around despite all the things she knew. Struggled with figuring out just how much of 'her truth' could even be shared, though yes... yes. There was a deep need thrumming in her to spill the truth upon the world, warring with the need to take every piece of it to her grave. Shattering all the facts into pieces, some to share, some to keep. Some, she hadn't decided on.

A drunk little hiccup escaped Nyssa. "Hell, I'd read the shit out of that."

Nyssa had no idea... She looked down and saw Max doing a four-paw standing, wiggling little prance beside Nyssa's legs. "Poor Max needs out, again." Nema noted with a chuckle.

"It's all those biscuits...! I'm surprised his belly isn't dragging on the floor!" Nyssa polished off her glass with a laugh and clicked her tongue at the smiley pit bull. "All right, come on, let me take you out while your Mommy's hard at work, like a boring person...!"

Nema rolled her eyes as Max barked a happy chirp of a bark and moved out with her boss, but no sooner than Nyssa left her office, she suddenly ducked back in. A bottle was in her hand, tall and gift wrapped in blue wrapping paper, tied off at the neck with silver ribbon. She plunked it down on Nema's desk with a smile. "Happy Hanukkah...!"

She couldn't help but smile in response, gently toying with a silver ribbon curl. "Scotch."

Nyssa's tendrils of hair bounced a bit in their pinned twist as she nodded. "Mmm hmm...! You know... just in case." She sipped, paused when she remembered that her glass was empty.

Nema tapped her bottle. "One for the trip outside?"

Her friend planted a hand on her hip and scoffed. "What kind of drunk do you think I am? I have enough to carry me through to New Year's Eve, if I wanted...!" Another bark, this one a little more urgent, caught her attention. "Yeah, yeah, I know...!" She dashed out of the office door, but peeped her head back in and pointed with her glass-bearing hand. "I'll expect 2,000 words in my inbox before Santa shows up."

"You got it, boss..." Nema spoke more to herself as she heard Nyssa beg for Max to wait while she looked for her shoes. 2,000 words, of her truth.

The cursor still blinked at her, mocking her, threatening her, challenging her... inviting her. 2,000 words of her truth, but there was so much that she doubted 2,000 words would be enough... It was just as well. It gave her time to figure out what she might become ready for, while sorting through all the things she knew she already was, because it needed to be shared. The kindness... the humor... the love in a killer who was, as far as anyone was allowed to know, killed. Even now there were some secrets she would have to keep... for his sake, despite all he'd done and the way he hurt her.

But even as hurt as she was...

She'd seen him, on the roof top. Heard the shots, could see where he aimed. One shot, one kill; he'd taken down four men, but he'd done it to help a hero and in doing so... was a hero, himself. Somewhere between the bullets and the blood... he was still a good man. Even if he didn't believe it, himself.

And he deserved to have someone fighting in his corner.

Nema sighed, leaving the bottle of scotch untouched, leaned forward, and began to type.


	31. Tired, Reprise

**The War for Hell's Kitchen  
** _Tired, Reprise  
_ By: Brenli

Nema Page sniffed quietly as she waited in the offices of Nelson and Murdock. She kept the lights off, save for the desk lamps, casting worn yellow light on everything and making the place feel beat up, well-worn.

It hadn't been her workplace for all that long, in the grand scheme of things, but her time there made her feel beat up and well-worn, too. Arms crossed, the toe of her patent leather shoe thumping against the floor as she looked through the blinds at Hell's Kitchen, she felt at once both alienated and yet... comfortable, in that alienation.

She was home, even if the city was a dangerous home.

Nema turned when she heard the click and push of the door opening up, and there Uriel was. Tall and imposing in the doorway... yet he seemed small. Well-worn, like how she felt. Beat up - literally so; a little white bandage on his brow. A bruise that curled around his cheekbone, that had her thinking of another man, entirely.

She missed Uriel.

She also knew they could never go back. Not really. Not ever.

Uriel shut the door behind himself, and after a hesitant pause, he spoke. Soft and deep. Sad, even. "Thanks for meeting me." He dropped his folded-up walking stick on a chair set by the door, and it sounded strangely like defeat. Like dropping a shield.

Nema stepped forward, her hands awkwardly, nervously patting against the skirt of her dark dress. "... What am I doing here, Uriel?" Cold. That seemed like such a frigid thing to say to the man who'd saved her from murder charges, who befriended her, who briefly dated her. It didn't change the fact that she was confused. After all that had happened... the way they'd crumbled apart from each other like cracks in the earth. She wasn't sure why he really wanted to speak to her, again…

Uriel had a crumpled paper bag tucked underneath one arm, creating an oddly-shaped package. He approached her slowly, the muscles of his jaw flexing, hinting at the turmoil his sunglasses were hiding. "There's something you need to see," he said, slipping a hand into the paper bag.

Her first assumption? A gift. An 'I'm sorry' turned into an object, but Nema had no room to carry anything more. There was already so much weight within her, she thought she might buckle from it... and so she shook her head, tried to wave the paper bag away from existence. "No, no, I don't want it-"

"There's something..." Uriel repeated, his tone even and firm and full of meaning. "You need to see."

Nema fell silent. Even the energy to protest was completely, totally gone. When her silence stretched on long enough to be an answer, Uriel pulled an object out of the bag.

A mask meant to cover a head, eyes and nose. Red with a distinct pair of horns protruding from the forehead...

"I'm Daredevil." Uriel said.

Nema's brown eyes never looked so much like a doe's, caught in the headlights. The impact of his confession struck her silent, staggered her breathing. Made her connect the dots, sewing every event together into a tangled mess.

Denial struck against acceptance. They were both the right height, the right body build, the right skin tone... But so what? Uriel wasn't the only tall, dark, handsome man in the world. There was a reason it was a _type._ She began stepping backwards. "... No. No, that... doesn't make sense..." But saying it out loud had some part of her fighting it. All his disappearances. The bruises and the scrapes.

But the eyes. His blind eyes, hiding behind dark lenses... This didn't make sense...

"I know it doesn't," Uriel said, his mouth curling into a pathetic, apologetic smile. "But it's the truth." He let the mask rest on the surface of Nema's old desk, setting it down without having to feel for the flat tabletop, first. Slipping his sunglasses down and away from his eyes, he still kept them downcast. The same eyes that always seemed to be staring vacantly at nothing. "I wish there was... something I could say that would make it easier to hear. But all I have left in me is just the truth... and you need to hear it."

She tried to make sense of Uriel not needing his walking stick, not needing to gingerly feel for surfaces, suddenly. Maybe he simply had the layout of the office memorized; it wasn't as if she'd done any rearranging...

But the mask sat upon her desk, the lenses covering the eye holes, staring at her.

Nema's hip accidentally bumped against the corner of her desk, making her jump and give a startled yelp.

Uriel gestured towards the rickety swivel chair on the other side of the desk... her old chair. "If you want to sit down... I'll tell you anything you want to know. No lies, this time."

Nema stammered as she blindly felt her way across the side of the desk and stumbled into her chair. It creaked, tilted slightly to the right... familiar, which was exactly what she needed. A comfortable, mundane anchor to the ground. "Uriel, this doesn't... it doesn't... _how_ could you be able to... you're... you're blind..."

"Sight is overrated."

"But then _how-?"_ Nema's voice rose in demand, and she took a shuddering breath to reel herself back in. But it was so... so unbelievable. So hard to believe him.

Uriel shrugged, his brows knit together in a display of how helpless he look. "I don't really know how to _explain_ it, Nema. After the accident, when I lost my sight? Everything else just... changed. Especially my hearing. My eyes are useless, but I can _see_... just about everything."

Sitting there, looking up at him, made her feel all the smaller. Overwhelmed. "And... and you just... decided to do this?" Nema pointed at the mask. "This whole time, you've been... doing this? Every time you ever saved me, you would play dumb when I told you about it the following day?" The train of thought ran in a tight circle, her heart beating harder with the epiphanies... and then her breath hitched. "Does Setsuna know?"

"I didn't want to lie to you every time you told me about Daredevil... but Nema, the mask, the alter ego, all of it was to protect the people I care about. And yes... Setsuna knows. He's known for a while, now." Uriel planted his hands on his hips and took a step back, shaking his head as though meaning to clear his head. "I didn't tell him; he found out one day, when he discovered me bloodied up and in my suit. I never wanted him to know."

He'd known, too...? "How long?" It was daggers in the heart, though she tried hard to sympathize. No amount of sympathy could take the edge off the... Anger? Dejection? ... Disappointment.

"Don't be angry with him." Uriel said gently. "I made him swear not to tell you... I had some very, very bad, very _powerful_ people after Daredevil. I couldn't run the risk of anybody getting hurt. Especially you."

"I feel like the track record shows you haven't been all that successful." She couldn't help it. Nema couldn't help but spit out the venom... and the guilt of it made tears build in her lashes, as she hung her head, closed her eyes.

"No arguments there." Uriel said dryly, his voice laced with apology. "I'm not a good person, Nema. I just needed you to know why all this has happened... I'm not expecting forgiveness. But if you can find it in yourself not to hate me for it, that'll be enough for me."

"I don't hate you." It was automatic because it was the truth, and the truth set her free. The truth put her in tears. "It would be easier if I did. I don't _hate_ you, Uriel; I just..." She shrugged. "I just hurt."

"I know..." Uriel said gently. "I know, me too. I hope that knowing the truth will somehow make things easier." He picked up the mask from the desk and slowly put it back into the bag. "I also wanted you to know that I'm officially retiring." Uriel chuckled, and it was a dry, broken sound. "I'm done..."

Nema hadn't realized she was fidgeting, half-twisting in her swiveling chair until his declaration made her freeze. The heel of her patent leather shoe tacked against the floor. "... Why?"

"I don't, um..." Uriel's mouth formed a hard, quivering frown. Suddenly the man was holding back tears. "I just don't have anything left, I guess. I'm... tired. So very tired."

She found herself reaching out, yet she didn't touch him. Even now, Uriel felt miles and miles away... alone on some mountain top, and she was at the bottom. She sniffed back her tears and nodded, her hands falling to her lap. "Me... Me, too. Like... the kind of tired that sits in your marrow, you know?" It felt like confessing. "It's pervasive; you can't make it leave. That kind of tired..." She looked up at him and felt smaller and smaller still. Wanting validation, even if she didn't need it. "Right?"

"Yeah..." Uriel nodded. "It's funny. Michael Castle told me once about being tired, like that. I said I understood, but... I really didn't. I do, now." Shaking his head, Uriel finally grabbed one of the rickety chairs they used to make clients wait in, and dragged it over to sit at the desk across from Nema. "Damn that man. I used to think he was completely insane, but nowadays... I'm not so sure."

She looked at him, effortlessly setting up that chair without gingerly searching. Sitting across from her, so tall that he looked like he was all limbs, in the chair... It felt familiar. It felt like home. "I wish that-" She stopped herself, because she knew that she wished for many things. That he hadn't left her in the woods to put a bullet in the Blacksmith. That he hadn't left her in the diner. That he hadn't left her, angry with failure at court. That he hadn't left her... "I think... it would have been... good. If you had more time to talk to him." She nodded at the mask, hiding in a paper bag once again, "Vigilante to vigilante. I know you don't like him, but..."

"He said something to me." Uriel said, his blind eyes seeming far more vacant than usual. "He told me, 'You know, you're one bad day away from being me.' And what terrifies me the most is that I know that day has come and gone. So unless I want to start mowing down my enemies with an AK-47... I need to stop. So I'm stopping."

"... You're sure?" Nema queried softly. "Michael, he..." The more she spoke of him, the more her heart began to trip over its beats. "He won't be... coming around, for a while. He can't, with everyone thinking he's dead. At least, not for a while. That only really leaves you." She stopped when she realized what she was saying. Encouraging, even with the violence of it, the bone-crunch, gut-squish of it which set her on edge. It was filthy work... but this city, as much as she adored it, as much as it was home... This city needed heroes. Including ones that could do the filthy work.

Uriel shook his head. "No." The single word was a final conviction, the result of what must have been hours of thought. "I can't. This city has its problems, but I can't be the one to fix it, anymore. If I ever do put on the mask again... I have to fix me, first."

Strange, how honesty could be utterly palpable after dealing with lies for so, so long... Relieving, even as it ached. Nema nodded, her pale sunlight strands slipping over her shoulders. "... Okay. Okay, then... going forward, you're simply Uriel Murdock... avocado at law."

And Uriel laughed, even though he still sounded broken and tired. "Yeah, that's the plan. And... hopefully I can still call myself your friend." Uriel clasped his hands together and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I know that... things kind of got a little weird between us, for a bit. But... I've come to realize that, you and I? We should just stay friends. I can't... I won't get involved with anyone, right now." Uriel's voice caught, and he coughed in an attempt to hide the emotion that made his eyes suddenly glassy.

"The woman who was in your bed..." As soon as she said it, she shut her mouth. Nema didn't know anything about that woman; who was she to assume whatever he had with her, whether it was something to be kept or something to be discarded. Uriel's honesty didn't mean she knew everything... As was the nature of things. Even honest people could be filled to the brim with secrets…

"She's, um... Not around, anymore." Uriel let out a shaky breath. "She, uh... Damn it." He rubbed his eyes. "You're right to assume... what you're assuming. Zephyr was my girlfriend in college and she... She was a very complicated woman."

Nema nodded, and the pain thrummed in her heart... but it wasn't about the woman. It wasn't about Zephyr, or at least, not about her being in Uriel's bed. Not anymore... "I'm so sorry." The condolences were a weeping whisper.

"She died in my arms..." Uriel said quietly, vacantly. "And I realized that living as Daredevil could have only ended one way... With me holding the one I love most in the world as she slipped away."

Her hands swiped at the tear trails on her cheeks. So much crying... would she ever run out of tears to shed? "Then it's better to get away... I mean. Sometimes you have to run. For your own peace." She knew from personal experience. People said a lot about the cowardice of running from pain; they didn't know what it meant to see someone so dearly cherished die. A lover. A child. A brother.

But even now, she kept the secret locked up tight... Funny in a terrible way, how that made her feel like a cruddy excuse for a friend. But they had a lot to mend, first. "I, um... I've been really busy at The Bulletin. But if you ever need anything..."

"Thank you..." Uriel said, sincerely. "But, for now, I really think I need to try and find my own way." He smiled dryly. "Maybe that's always been my problem, but... this time, I really think it's the best way."

Nema's lips thinned... but she nodded, sniffed, contained herself. "Yeah, that... seems to be what everyone needs, isn't it...?" She was no exception. Nor Setsuna. Nor Michael... "Thank you, though... for finally letting me in." She would have figured that felt like victory, and in a way, it did. Hollow victory. It didn't hold the kind of joy she always thought it would... Like saying goodbye, even while saying hello, again.

"I'm... sorry I couldn't have done it sooner." Uriel murmured softly. "I'm not sure it would have changed anything... But I'm still sorry."

"I'm sorry, too…" But she didn't linger any longer; she had articles to write and Max to feed, after all. "I won't keep you; I'm sure we both have things to do. ... Lives to get on track, and all that." She tried to smile, but it was weak. Tired. Her marrow ached from the effort. Yet the ache didn't stop her from walking halfway out the door to Nelson and Murdock, like slipping from one chapter of her life and into the next.

The ache didn't stop her from suddenly asking, "Do you...?"

Uriel looked up at her, his brows slowly knitting together as he stared at her. Sensing the sudden, nervous change in her. "... Yeah?"

"Oh, it's..." Her arms wrapped around herself as she nervously shifted from shoe to patent leather shoe. "It's nothing..." It was so much more than nothing. "I just... Do you talk with him at all?" Nema looked over her shoulder. "Michael, I mean?"

Uriel stayed silent for a moment, not attemping to process the question, so much as her reasoning behind asking it. "... Not since the trial."

And she couldn't hide the disappointment. "Oh... okay, yeah... I just... kind of wondered." No... no, she'd been hopeful, and the dashing of it struck her heart into a broken beat as she turned back around. Nema briefly braced her hands against the jamb and muttered through the reemerging need to cry. "Like maybe... there's some vigilante club house, that you all hang around in. Or like... you all are on a registered list. Or, like a... like a team." She rambled and tried to hide the little quake in her voice. "Like... street-level Avengers, you know? Nevermind." She clapped her hands to her face; her cheeks felt wet. "I'm just being stupid. I'll um... I'll see you around, Uriel."

"Yeah, I… I'd say the same, but." The joke fell weakly from Uriel's lips, but they attempted to mend the failure with soft, sad laughter. "Take care, Nema."

"You, too." She punctuated the farewell with the shutting of the door to Nelson and Murdock. Farewell to one chapter of her life. Hello to another… Yet she wasn't naive enough to assume this was anything like a clean slate. No, parts came along with her, even if only distantly. People. Actions. The consequences of those actions… The heavy fatigue of it all.

Nema continued to endure.


End file.
